


all that we lost

by MintToy



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-War, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2019-11-26 15:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18182366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintToy/pseuds/MintToy
Summary: Five years since the war has passed. Five years since she joined the Dragon Guard. Five years since she saw either of the princes. One of them is a King now.Rayla doesn’t consider herself blessed. How could she lose so much of herself and gain nothing back? The war has come and gone, and still she’s counting her losses. Amidst this fractured peace of a nation, she returns to Katolis to make up for lost time.





	1. Chapter 1

_King Ezran of Katolis requests the honour of your presence at the upcoming festival to celebrate the Five-Year Anniversary of Armistice and Peace._  

Rayla blinks twice at the invitation.

“You don’t want to go,” Runaan pipes up.

“No.” She finishes reading the contents of the letter. “I guess not.”

He’s leaning against a counter in her living quarters, careful with the kettle as he splits the brewed tea evenly between two cups. He’s gotten better living with a single arm. She’s learned he likes his independence, even swats her hand gently when she offers it, so lately she keeps to herself. To make up for it, she makes sure he’s not in the room when she sparks the flint to bring the tea to a boil. She doesn’t think the extra effort is helpful.

He slides her cup across the counter and Rayla puts away the scroll, shifting her gaze to the downpour of rain behind the glass window. Unconsciously, one of her hands reach to worry a single braid of hair, which has gotten ostensibly long in the past few years.

“…I know that face, Rayla. You’re reconsidering,” he says.

She pauses, tweaking her expression a smidge. Reconsidering, overthinking, hesitating. It’s all the same. “I have a penchant for that, don’t I?”

He sighs, “Since you were a child.”

She sneaks a glance back at the parchment scroll like it haunts her. “Runaan, please. Tell me what I should do.”

He inhales sharply before shaking his head, expression stony. “You’re not a child anymore, Rayla. I’ve long stopped telling you what to do.”

She looks away, bites her tongue. As expected of him. She has to repress the dull ache in her heart, not let herself be consumed with grief. A decade ago, he would have said otherwise. She despised it then, but now she wishes she were more like him. She’s too indecisive, utterly incapable of making a solid choice and sticking by it.

Nowadays, he’s careful to intervene. He doesn’t know she relishes him scolding her for something stupid, or calling her out on bullshit, because even for a small, miniscule moment life seems simpler. Sooner or later, reality hits its inevitable stride and now he has to rely on _her_ to tie his hair, cut his food, spark a fire. He abhors it, and yet he offers her a smile of thanks. She’s not blind to the contempt and frustration concealed underneath. Lately it’s become unbearable to watch.

“If you go, might I make a suggestion?” he interrupts her train of thought.

“Anything,” she means with full sincerity.

He motions to the scroll, the problematic thing. Things would have been easier if it didn’t land in her hands. “Bring it with you. It contains a king’s seal. Peace may be at hand between the nations, but people are slow to change.”

She frowns and then nods, wordlessly. There’s no arguing the statement. “And what about you?” The question comes out more bitter than she intends.

He sighs, more in exasperation, and he rubs the bridge of his nose. “Rayla, I’ll be _fine_. I’m capable of caring for myself.”

She purses her lips, relinquishes the thought and regrets asking. “...I know. I’m sorry.”

That’s how she got here. Rayla remembers their conversation clear as day. She sits perched on a forest tree, capturing a landscape view of Katolis, which stills stands tall and proud despite years of war.

It’s been ten years now since she discovered that the egg of the dragon prince had not been destroyed.

Five years since the peace treaties were signed.

Five years since she joined the Dragon Guard.

Five years since she’s seen either of the princes.

One of them is a King now. Back then, she hadn’t anticipated joining the Guard would cut her out completely from their lives. At this point, it’s up in the air whether they even remember her fondly. This invitation may very well be a simple token of their past friendship.

Rayla hops off the tree. She pets the stocky mare she purchased from the first town across the border and gingerly feeds it apple slices without the core. To her luck, the creature has been a gentle one – she could never read animals as well as Ezran could. Eventually, she figures out the direction of the castle and realization sinks that she can make it by the afternoon. Her mind starts whirring, treading down that familiar path.

She could still go back.

Pretend to be lost? She never meant to come this direction.

Did she forget the scroll?

She fishes a hand inside her pack, because really, she could go back for it – never mind, it’s sitting in neat folds in the bottom of her bag. And the seal is intact. Her efforts are fruitless.

_You’re an idiot, Rayla. You’ve already gotten this far._

She sighs, hoisting herself on the horse and beckoning the creature to a slow trot. She briefly considers taking the rocky cliffsides, just as she did a decade ago, but with the king’s seal, she could enter through the front gates, as a normal person would. She’d think it blasphemous if she were an assassin, but she’s removed herself out of those garbs and teachings a long time ago.

* * *

The guard at the front gate is mildly curious about her.

He doesn’t come off judgmental, maybe a little wary, but she’s encountered worse. He reads through her invitation, verifies the king’s seal, and then has a moment of contemplation to himself. Afterwards, he hands her back the invitation.

“So, I assume you’re coming from far?” he pipes up.

She looks up from her pack, shrugs lightly. “Yes. From Xadia, actually.”

He whistles in fascination. The distance isn’t as wide as people perceive, perhaps only few strict days with short rest. But even with a declaration of peace, only few have truly covered the distance. It’s one of those things that will take time, like recovering from war.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how do you know the king?” continues the guard.

She hesitates for a moment. There’s a window in her head where she can see her younger self sitting in camp, surrounded by elven assassins. Under the moon, sharpening her blades, keeping vigil on cold nights, wary of all sights and sounds. She’s imagining how she would go about killing a young prince. A child. And there was always a sliver of doubt. In hindsight, she’s glad for the stolen egg. She never would have finished the task.

“I…knew him as a child,” she answers.

“Well, nice to know the king has connections outside the pentarchy. You’re the first of your kind to pass the gates for the festival,” he remarks, and Rayla remembers only a few souls in this town know of her. And even fewer understand the undertaking and sacrifices she’s made for the sake of peace.

Rayla’s gaze trails to the castle up ahead. “You wouldn’t happen to know the best way to speak with the king, do you?” 

“In your case?” He seems surprisingly optimistic. “Your invitation has a special seal. It might be your ticket to skip the line and see him directly. Give it a shot.”

“I see…” she’s saying, relieved she may not have to scale those jagged and precarious cliffs a second time. “…Thank you.”

She walks on ahead, entering as a visitor, taking in the sights. There’s a nearby stable where she drops off the horse and pays the stable hand a hefty pouch of gold. Money has no value in Xadia, but crossing the border meant she’d have to get a hold of some. From one town to another, she snagged a couple of easy bounties and paid them off to keep comfortable.

Venturing forward, Katolis surprises her.

The town is bustling in the afternoon light. Townsfolk chatter amongst themselves in all corners, vendors set up their stands and a myriad of colourful signs and flags drape against the wooden walls and across the streets. With war no longer a terrible and painful prospect, the town carries on with merriment and joy.

The first pair of eyes reach her and the façade disappears as quick as it began.

They’re cold, uneasy and afraid. The group of vendors on her right gawk with alarm too. An enemy walking amongst them. Maybe it’s her horns? The colour of her hair? Maybe her markings. Rayla trudges forward, wonders if she spoke to them, offered to help set up their booths, cooked for them, did their chores, gave them all the money in the world, would they change their minds? Perhaps not. It was her kind that took the late King Harrow.

Runaan’s words linger. This town celebrates a fractured peace.

* * *

Five years is a long time.

It goes without saying, but she’s nervous because of it. She leans forward in her seat, elbows resting on her knees and she’s reduced to staring blank at the plush carpets. Guilt seeps in, because Rayla knows this is _not_ the first invitation Ezran has flown out to her. He’s sent many. Personal updates, town celebrations, news of Katolis. Callum also sent a few letters of his own. She doesn’t remember when he stopped.

Ezran made her this promise back when she announced her induction into the Guard, and he’s never broken it. His duties as King would prevent him from visiting often, but she reassured him it didn’t matter. She’d make the effort to stay in touch as well.

What a fucking lie.

She would put them in the back burner of her mind until now.

The door opens, prompting her to stand. The armored guard motions to her. “The King is ready to see you now.”

Unsteady on her feet, she wills herself forward. Her heart picks up its pace. On the way, she takes her time, appreciates the portraits, listens to the click of her boots, counts her steps. Stalling. Her arrival into the room is met with suspicious eyes and wary stances. Already she’s had her fair share of encounters with guards. She didn’t anticipate the two of them would have company, but he is the King after all.

“Welcome back, Rayla,” someone speaks.

She jolts a little, startled because she didn’t expect his voice to be so deep and then she finds him in the middle of the room, garbed in regal attire coloured gold and red. The good-natured smile on his features puts her at some ease. She watches as Ezran looks to his company, signs a few commands and then one after the other, they file out in single line.

She looks back at him, mouths a grateful thanks and waits until the doors are shut. Finally, she casts a good inspection on him. This is the same boy she chased through the castle corridors, helped down a mountain, traversed the wide and open seas, consistently put herself in harm’s way. One of the very _few_ to understand. He’s taller now, perhaps a couple inches more than herself, and at a ripe age of twenty. A handsome young man, with familiar blue eyes and a spitting image of his father.

“Do you, uhh, recognize me?” he asks after some time.

She clicks back from thinking, not realizing how long she’d been staring so vacantly. “Y-Yeah, of course. Ezran, you look…”

“Older? Sharper? Wiser? More handsome maybe?” he continues, grinning.

She grins back, realizing just how much she’s missed his company. “All of it. And kingly too, might I add. Should I be calling you ‘your majesty’ from this point forward?”

He waves a hand and makes a face, dismisses the notion as silly. “No need for that. Especially not from you. You’re like family to me.” Rayla winces somewhat and the corners of her mouth lose their grip. She watches him move towards a bench by the window and then beckons her over. She follows suit and takes the seat next to him.

“I take it you’re still part of the Guard, right?”

She nods. “That’s right.”

“How’s our boy Zym doing?”

Her mind fills with colourful images of the dragon prince. The not-so-little sky creature, with bright blue scales. A troublesome thing, and yet destined to become one of the most unfathomably powerful creatures to exist. She wishes he were still small.

“He’s doing well, just like you, Ezran. Growing up too fast, learning his place in the world, even his own powers. He’s an expert hunter now too. To think he used to fit on my lap…those times seem so long ago.” She amends the words in her head: those times _were_ a long time ago. She shifts the subject. “He misses you, you know.”

Ezran smiles. “I actually paid him a visit about a year ago.”

Rayla hides her shock poorly and then shrinks in her seat. She looks to the ground instead.

“I wanted to pay you a visit too, but you weren’t there at the time.”

She probably had the week off, just as she does now. Looking back, she was probably sitting at home, counting down until she has to return, fretting about Runaan, sleeping off her worries for two days straight.

“I’m sorry I disappeared for so long,” she comes out with it, relieving a longstanding weight off her chest. “These years after the war have come and gone so fast. I’ve been at the Guard for most of the time and the adjustment wasn't easy.” Here, she grips her fists a little too tight, and she softens her voice. “It’s still not easy.” 

“It’s okay,” Ezran says, always the empathetic one. “It hasn’t been easy here either. Even now, I’m still learning the ropes. You do what you have to. I’m just glad you’re here now.”

She finds the means to smile, because deep down that’s all she wished to hear. “Thank you.”

“Ah, I almost forgot my manners,” he pipes up, rising to his feet. “You probably came a long way, haven’t you? Would you care for a drink? Or early supper? Maybe you prefer to get some sleep first?”

She thinks of her journey.

Long days, short rest, but her body’s been through worse. For that, she has to think farther back and peel just the surface of the aforementioned years. She’d been tasked to examine post-war fallouts and deal with the aftermath. Focus on rebuilding relations between races, fixing the broken parts and pieces, everyday counting losses and everyday mourning them.

She thinks of the Dragon Guard. Time ticking slow. Hours stretching into days. The stale and stuffy air of the mountains. She’d taken an oath to protect the dragon, which meant fortifying defences, halting unexpected coups, ending the rising rebellions as if the war never stopped. Days and nights spent alone enduring biting winters and harsh storms, lathed with sweat and dirt, all the while still trying to find ways to be _thankful_.

“Maybe a jelly tart?” she asks, because maybe, _just_ maybe, that will permanently cleanse her mind, purge the hardship. He raises a fine-arched brow and she can see he doesn’t fully know, can only pick up a trace of her inner workings because he’s observant. If he’s at all concerned, it doesn’t show.

He goes along with it. “Sure. I can send someone to pick up a batch. There’ll be plenty at the festival so you won’t have to worry about that.”

She smiles in response, quelling the restlessness in her veins. She weighs her elbows down on her knees to stop them from fidgeting.

“I’d like to invite you for dinner too, if you’re up for it.”

Rayla has no reason to refuse. “Sure.”

“Good. I’ll make the arrangements then,” he asserts, glad to hear it. “Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?”

She smiles up at him, grateful for his fervent goodwill. There is something, more like _someone,_ she has in mind _._ The other half of the princely duo. She mulls it over briefly for a second, wonders if the time is right, and then concedes. “Umm, Callum. How is he? Is he…here?”

Ezran gives her a knowing smile, because of course he expected her to ask, and then keeps his face levelled and neutral. Maybe he’s gauging her reaction.

“The Banther Lodge. He prefers the open space for magic practice. You’ll probably find him there. Do you remember where it is?”

She rises from her seat, waving a quick hand in dismissal. “I remember.” Nestled in a forest clearing, right beside the river. Their designated ‘winter’ lodge. “Do you mind if I…?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all, but do me a favour? Tell him to come back when the festival starts. He can’t hide in there forever.”

That teases a chuckle out of her. “Sure. I’ll see you later.”

* * *

She takes her time, doesn’t vault towards the trees or take to the cliffs. She _walks_ to the lodge, not arriving until the sky bleeds orange red hues of sunset.

Callum is a both a human and an archmage in the making, which is a strange combination. He’s come a long way from the boy who tripped over himself daily, harbored a long crush on the mage next door and carried a weird sense of humor. Clumsy, awkward, even a bit of a jerk. And yet in spite of that, when they first met, he lied to her about his identity to protect his brother. She knows now that was a testament of strength – her first clue that he was never as weak as he looked on the outside.

Now the world knows him as a bright mage and understands what he’s capable of. He only needed time to find his place. The two of them stumbled to a sour end, but still she’s happy for him.

Rayla slows to a stop at the front door of the lodge, twists the knobs to find they’re not open. Not that she expected them to be. She takes a step back, surveys for open windows.

_It’s the winter lodge._

_It’s been empty for months._

_No winter. No humans._

She shakes off the memory, deciding she’ll check around the area first. Not a second later, a gust of wind sweeps the grounds. Leaves and dirt grains move in contained swirls around the perimeter. Caught in between, the wailing winds induces shivers on her spine and she holds her ground, stopping to close her eyes and cover her mouth. The spell settles afterwards and the weather becomes still again.

_I’ve always been kind of bad at well, everything._

_And then you called me a mage._

This is not the simple _Aspiro_ incantation spell.

She strides towards the back of the building, stopping short of the large clearing because after five years of total absence, there he is, standing within reach. He hasn’t noticed her yet. Callum’s got his nose in a book and at his feet, a shabby and well-worn backpack. There’s another book on the ground. She guesses maybe a sketchbook. Maybe he hasn’t changed too much.

She observes for a bit, watching as he scribbles notes on the side of the page. He draws the familiar sign in the air, murmurs something in Draconic and then the wind picks up again. But this time, it’s small and short. The gust dies as quick as it started. His concentration is snapped. In a smooth motion, he turns in her direction, and she has little time to react.

But she doesn’t move at all, only looks on. Their gazes carry no spark, no magic, not even a flicker of joy from seeing an old friend. Hers is an inspecting, tired gaze while his is tainted with doubt, like he might be imagining her. She swallows down a gulp, forcing herself to press forward.

_You could still go back, Rayla. Turn around. Turn around. He doesn’t-_

“Rayla…” He’s frozen, unable to say much else.

She stops before him, _really_ looks him in the eye, somehow prove she’s real.

His expression is bewildering, a mixed bag of shock, confusion, panic, and horror until he corrects himself and settles for indifference mingled with light surprise. A poor disguise for the turmoil underneath. She’s in utter disbelief at how clear these emotions are to her still. Then again, she always read him with ease.

“It’s been a while, huh?” she forces out with resolute calm, even though she can’t help but look up and stare at those green eyes to see if she can hear his thoughts.

He takes a deep breath after her utterance and closes his eyes. He doesn’t reply right away.

“Yeah, it has…” he says with a soft undertone and she can almost hear him counting time in his head.

Silence comes between them and Rayla doesn’t know what to do with it. This conversation played out easier in her head. Now she reprimands herself for thinking she can simply walk in unannounced, forget what’s happened and expect them to shake hands. She stops herself, loosening her stance and casting her gaze in his general direction.

“Umm, Ezran told me you’d be here.”

He’s still trying to fathom that she’s standing in front of him. “Okay.”

“He, uhh, wants you to return in time for the festival.” Rayla hadn’t anticipated how awkward this would be. This early into the conversation and she’s almost grasping for words. “…he said you can’t hide in here forever.”

He perks up at that, like the words ring familiar and then he clears his throat. “Oh…” Realization sinks in his eyes. “Is…Is _that_ the reason you’re here?”

Rayla hesitates, not sure if he’s asking if she’s here because Ezran sent her, or if the festival, in general, was what brought her here.

“I came for the festival,” she tells honestly.

“The festival,” he repeats curtly.

She hears the doubt in his voice and gives him an offhand look.

He continues tersely, “You came all the way here for a festival?”

She raises a brow tentatively at his manner. Him spelling it out like that is off-putting. “That’s right,” she insists calmly. “Your brother invited me. Is that so hard to believe?”

“It is.”

She’s taken aback that he says it with such candor. “And why is that?”

He might be more lucid now, but the disbelief taking up his expression gives him away. He’s still wrapping his head around her, searching for understanding.

“Because you… _left_. Just when the war was settling and the world was starting to see things _our_ way, you disappeared,” he explains slowly, the pain in his voice tangible and felt. “…you work yourself busy at the Guard for several years and lose contact with us. And _now_ you decide to show up?” He scratches the head back of his head, but it’s more to soothe himself.

“No precedent, no warning, no letters. Nothing.” The unsteadiness in his voice only masks some of his frustration. “Rayla, you could have wrote back. You could have said something.”

The familiar guilt trickles through. She has no rebuttal for that.

“Callum, I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

He’s still shaking his head, so he might not have heard it, but if he did, it doesn’t register.

“Do you know what’s the worst part?” he continues. She doesn’t interrupt. “After all these years, I still don’t understand why you left. Why I had to do it _alone_.”

She’s irked by the inflection in his tone. It’s two questions, not one. The latter one is an old and tired argument. She hoped it wouldn’t be brought up again and yet here they are, tossed back to the start. She’s grown jaded and weary talking about it, especially in front of him. And now she catches his frustration, because he’s goading her into it, guilting her even. 

“I’ve already explained it, Callum,” she starts, voice stiff. “It had to be done by _you_. A human returning the dragon back to where he belongs. Because by doing that, you right the wrongs of the past. _That_ was the gesture that mattered, because _that_ was what ended the war.”

It’s to no avail. He shakes his head and it baffles her how nothing gets through, even in the most trying times. She exhales deeply, refusing to lose herself.

“Rayla, we spent years fighting the same war. We _both_ walked through these warring lands because together, we agreed returning Zym would bring peace between our nations.”

She rubs the bridge of her nose in vexation. “Callum, that’s not the point.”

“Yes it is!” he exclaims, flustered by the notion, arms gesturing wildly to prove his point. “If you had just come with me – the whole way – and if everyone had just _known_ what we did, what we went through to end the pointless fighting, then maybe-”

“Maybe what?” she cuts off, voice raised because she’s scared of where this is going.

He lowers his hands and hesitates to say it, “Then…” Another gulp. “…then maybe there wouldn’t be this divide between our races.”

_Fuck_. That’s not fair. Rayla steps back, shoulders tense and fists clenched. She looks on aghast, but it comes from a place of disappointment and anguish. “Are you blaming _me_ for this broken peace?”

“No, I’m not,” he asserts firmly, standing his ground. He had five long years to make up his mind. “I’m saying you saw it wrong. From the start, it should have been an elf and a human working together for the sake of peace. _That_ was the gesture that mattered, because it could have solved _more_  than the war, but you never listened. You didn't trust me.”

“That’s ridiculous, Callum. Of course I trusted you.”

“Then how did we get here?” he asks pointedly, gesturing to this time and place and situation. But Rayla notices he’s changed his tone. Using ‘we’ instead of ‘you’, because he’s also mad at himself. He drops his face into his hands, rubs the anger out of his eyes as he inhales and exhales staggered breaths.

She doesn’t know how to answer that. Instead, she looks to the ground, unable to look at him and see the pain and damage written there. So she keeps silent, wonders the same thing. _What have we done to each other?_

He lets out a sigh, lets his hands loose beside him. He contemplates for a second, searches for his own answers, but comes up empty. No matter what, his mind comes back to the same old question.

“Rayla, back when the war ended…” He pauses, because it’s difficult to ask. "…why did you _leave_?” His voice is softer this time, more defeated. “Is it something I did? Because if it is, I’m so sorry-”

“Callum, it’s not. I promise,” she stops him. Do it quick before he sinks deep into that mind frame and starts blaming himself.

Silence finally overcomes them. She doesn’t realize how stiff and wooden she is until she shifts her weight. She blinks several times, tries to stop tears from leaking through. _Stay strong_ , she tells herself, even though she feels anything but. He doesn’t notice. His eyes are on the ground, hands in his pockets as resignation takes over. It doesn’t feel right. They’re both starved for touch, in need of comfort that neither are willing to give.

He breaks silence first.

“Look. Rayla, I didn’t mean to spring this on you. Seeing you standing here, I got carried away,” he explains. She nods, watches as he kneels down to gather his books into his pack. For the first time, he offers her a smile. It’s more apologetic than anything. “Just forget about me and what I’ve said, but please, _please_ stay. For the festival. For Ezran especially. I know it would mean the world to him.”

Her expression loses its hardness. With him, eventually it would. “Okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

She has a nightmare.

Swords clashing, bodies laying waste, the scent of blood and metal. Someone whispers draconic into the ominous air. There’s an ugly sound, a strangled cry, a loud _splat_. Her lip quivers as she looks unblinking. Around her, the wind’s whispers turn into screams. The trees hunch and cower in mourning. And then alarmingly, all at once, her vision goes _red_.

With a choked off cry, Rayla shoots up from the ground, grasps for her sword and strikes it _hard_ halfway through the bark of a tree. Her eyes flash open.

She’s shaking, shivering, drenched in sweat. And then she takes a large breath, as if she’d just found an air socket, and kneels herself over. Her body knows the routine.

Close her eyes.

Plug both ears.

Stay still.

Remember to breathe.

The actions are ingrained in muscle memory, even in disorientation. The bridge, she calls it, from nightmare to reality. Year five and the impressions of war and bloodshed are still inescapable. As a child, she likened them to monsters hunting at night. They feed off dreams, ruin sleep, breed terror. They follow her still, but nowadays, it seems these demons like to tug, nudge, even jab every once in a while. They like to creep slow. They crawl as they please, but rarely in daylight.

The trick is to remember they’re not real, but that stopped making sense a long time ago. All her visions are _real_ and difficult circumstances, conjured with terrible outcomes. Each night is a different mistake. A different failure. A different death. No matter what, the horror is the same: the war rages on.

Every night, she wakes to a different sky, but she’s always thinking, always trying to find ways to be _thankful_ , _thankful_ , _thankful_. If she doesn’t, then her efforts would have been in vain. So when the shaking subsides, she reaches into her bag, retrieves the small paper book, grips it in her hands like a lifeline.

She write lists. Odd, isn’t it? It’s one way of feeling in control.

She flips to an empty page, begins anew, thinks of all the worthy and wonderful things in the world. Like counting her blessings, but instead she writes them out, so she’ll never forget.

* * *

Runaan likes to count, but always up. Counting down is like a race against time.

The first time she caught him shaking in his sleep, this is what he’d done. He blocked out all noise, stared at the ground and murmured softly to himself. Back then, she didn’t quite understand, only knew it was out of character. Unaware she’d walked into something private and personal, she asked what was wrong.

He stopped himself, froze on the spot. And after a few minutes of swallowing his terror, he told her it was nothing.

At the time, she didn’t know to comfort him, so she did the opposite. “Elves aren’t supposed to show fear.”

He was silent for a while and eventually agreed with her.

She never brought it up again, but she doesn’t forget it either. At the time, she used to think he was invincible. Hard-wired, with potent strength. Daunting and efficient, as everything came easy with his speed and skill. Made of metal, because nothing pierced him.

Looking back, she wishes she wasn’t so tone-deaf. She can see now that night terrors run in her blood. The fear in his eyes that night told her things she never knew. He had his own fears, but seldom showed them.

But the morning sun has risen now. These monsters don’t appear in daylight, just spill through on occasion.

The first thing she does is grip the hilt of her blade, try to yank it free from the thick bark of the tree. It takes a few tugs, bends and pulls, but finally the blade is wrestled out. She sits herself on a mossy rock, takes the next few moments to sharpen it with a piece of whetstone. These blades are complicated crafts and she’s been taught to prolong their wear. Since joining the Guard, she’s already had them replaced too many times.

It’s a common practice over there. Coincidentally, so are the demons in the night. Some of the elves at the Guard are damaged beyond repair. Hopeless, too. How strange it attracts some of the most broken people.

_Shouldn’t you have known this?_

Rayla slows, and then stops sharpening altogether. A sigh, and then she rubs her hands on her face.

_Didn’t you ask for this?_

Carefully, she sheathes the sword behind her, stares at the patchy grass and her boots. The memories run deep. They are cold and dank, just like the stronghold. A place that seemed like _hell_ in the worst moments.

She glances over to her bag, quickly recalls the night before. Her book of lists. She lowers herself to her knees and fishes it out. Some nights she can list out fifty good things. Other nights, only one. Sometimes it’s the same thing repeated fifty times. What had been the case last night?

She’s about to find out when she hears something in the distance. Rayla pauses, hand frozen on top of the book. She listens close.

Voices. Stomping. Horses. Not many. A small cavalry, but they’re close. The scene rings familiar. She sees herself in the window to the past, but this time, she doesn’t hide. She puts away the book and seals the bag tight, kicks it behind the rock. She reminds herself the war is over.

When they draw close enough, she glances up at them. Three soldiers, three horses and a bloodhound – they’re tracking her scent. She recognizes one of the riders easy enough.

“Rayla!”

The man on the white horse approaches closer. The other two stay a small distance back. She raises a brow, watching as Soren takes his time dismounting the horse. She lets him.

“Long time, no see, huh?” he comments, offering a grin and stretching his limbs as walks over to her. “You here by yourself?”

She plays along, looks around for other company, and then shrugs. “Yup. It’s just me.” To point out the difference, she tips her head to the soldiers standing guard behind him. “What about you?” 

“Oh, you mean them?” He points to the troops behind him and she spares them another cursory glance. “We’re just following orders. Looking for you, actually.”

If he’s talking orders, it could only be one of two people. “Did Callum set you up to this?”

He shakes his head and then eyes her with suspicion. “No, King Ezran. Apparently you missed dinner last night?”

The terrible recognition sinks in, like something bitter settling in the back of her throat, and she has to smack herself in the head for forgetting. “Oh…right. Sorry, it must have slipped my mind.”

He waves it off, lightening the mood. “Nah, it’s fine! Think nothing of it. I just need to relay the message that you are A-okay.” She stares blank, not used to his volume and level of enthusiasm. Perhaps Ezran had suspected she left town. Suddenly, Soren hones in on her because he’s not getting the reaction he needs. “Umm, you _are_ okay, right?”

She takes a step back, nodding once. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He claps his hands together, and it’s done with so much spirit she flinches. “Great! You’ll be happy to hear he also extends an invitation for lunch.”

This is when she takes another glance at the other guards. Poised and stalwart. She doubts either of them could boast the same energy so early in the morning. She looks at the man in question and considers the offer. “Do you have an extra horse, by any chance? For the ride back?”

The question is futile as Soren lights up in recall. “Extra horse? Oh, damn. I didn’t even think about that.” He glances around, as if one could magically appear before them. “Hmm, that _does_ make things tricky, doesn’t it?” He scratches his blonde mop of a head and contemplates it for a short moment. “…you know what? I can escort you back personally, if you don’t mind walking, that is.”

Her expression is unsure, and surprisingly, so is his. The first time they’re on the same page. It shouldn't be a problem, she tells herself, because they live in a world of peace. “I don’t mind. We can walk.”

He nods and waves a simple command to the other guards, tells them to forge on ahead. The horses turn and gallop at speed, carrying them away and now they’re alone. Of course, he makes a grand gesture of it and waves her forward. She picks up her bag, gathers her things and starts walking.

They walk in step as he pulls the reins of his stallion. “Can I assume you came back for the festival?”

That’s been the story so far. “That’s right.”

“I haven’t seen you since the war ended.”

She knew she’d hear it. The most she can do is shrug and spare him an excuse. “I haven’t been back. The last time I was here, I think it was…” her voice trails off as her mind thinks back to the full moon rising that night, her body dissipating into thin air. “…well, you know. You were there.”

It makes her want to crawl into a hole, but instead she plasters a sheepish look. 

He seems to brush over it. “That’s so strange. I thought you and Callum hit it off back then. I kind of assumed I’d be seeing you around more often.”

She frowns, casts her eyes down as she walks. “It didn’t end like that.”

They’re silent for a bit. Just the crunch of leaves under their feet and the soft whistle of the wind in their ears. While his eyes are forged ahead, she allows herself a glimpse of him as they walk. Just as she expects, there’s a small limp there. He bears less weight on his left side.

She looks away, grimaces to herself. Seeing it gives the same kind of ache when she bandages what’s left of Runaan’s arm.

“You should get back on your horse,” she pipes up. At the same time, she tries not to sprinkle her words with judgment or concern. “I know the way back to the palace. If you want, you can wait me there.”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I need the fresh air and exercise. Besides, I am in much better shape than I was years ago. My limp’s gotten better too. Sometimes, I hardly feel it.”

He did notice her. She just didn’t want him to. Now that it’s out in the open, she doesn’t hesitate to clear the air. “I thought Claudia fixed you up.”

“Claudia used magic.”

The statement hangs in the air.

No need to say what kind. He says it firm enough, but not with any sort of anger. He only points out the two are not the same.

He stretches his limbs, his own way of shaking it off. “I guess you could say I never returned to my normal form.”

It’s become the unspoken truth. That even when the war’s been won, it’s impossible to return where you started. She knows, and even _he_ knows, that he’ll never go back. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, akin to someone talking about an incurable or irreversible thing. It’s the bottom line and harsh reality.

“Does it get easier?” she asks in a slow and meaningful way, because no one walked away from the war unwounded.

He sighs. “Yes and no. I guess you could say it becomes more _manageable_. With time, of course.” He notices his own downward expression and then turns it around. “But…it’s nothing to worry about. I’m still a knight of the Crownguard, aren’t I? So it’s not like I lost everything.”

She puts on a pained smile, suspects his optimism is a means to cope. Hopeful, but without belief. She chooses to read between the lines. To hear what he’s _not_ saying. Because hadn’t he lost his Father? How could he smile knowing his corpse is still rotting underneath layers of blood-soaked soil, in a land with no cause. 

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

He seems oblivious, but maybe she doesn’t give him enough credit. “For what? You didn’t cause this.”

It doesn’t matter. She knows the pain of losing something. “…I’m still sorry.”

* * *

“Rayla, had I known you had no place to stay for the night, I would have offered you a room.”

Ezran sits at the head of the table and she sits on his left. Her gaze hovers from one pot or plate to another, thinking there are enough bread rolls here to feed the castle. She doesn’t know how to tell him _not_ to do things for her, like fetching her from the forest, preparing meals like this, offering her a room. The gesture is too great.

“I don’t mind. I prefer it, actually.”

He nods, taking a sip of stew. “How was the trip to the Banther Lodge?”

A loose shrug. “It was fine.”

“Brings back old memories, huh?”

“Yeah.”

He turns to her now, eyes on her plate. She’s barely picked at it. “Callum…” he starts, almost sighing. “…I hope he didn’t upset you or anything.”

Her tired gaze turns into curiosity. She wonders if he knows. If he thinks the same. That even after five years past, there are still lingering regrets about how the war was won. If it’s a frequent topic discussed in kingdom negotiations, hushed meetings, locker room talks between guards and generals. She’s curious because she hears it in her own country too, from skeptics and conspiracists and politicians alike.

They act as if the war’s been _lost_. Refuse to settle past transgressions. Diminish the work she’s put into achieving this frustrating and fragile peace. The thought makes her enraged, fuels fire in her mind. It’s the reason she opted out of politics after the war. Such a peculiar battlefield. A different kind of cold. She translates herself better with swords than with words.

“Not at all,” she pipes up with a forced calm. “We just talked. Caught up on a few years. Exchanged pleasantries.”

From behind, the heavy door creaks and opens. Both of them turn, eyes following Callum as he shuffles along and makes his way towards the table. He looks like he slept three hours. Rayla sinks into her seat because, of course, the moment she lies, opportunity arrives to bite back at her.

“Late, Callum, but how nice of you to join us.” He eyes the way his brother drags his feet across the floorboards with wry amusement.

Callum just offers a phony smile at Ezran’s jab as he takes the seat across Rayla. “Morning, Ez.” He acknowledges her with a nod. “Rayla. Good to see you here.”

“Likewise,” she returns quietly.

Ezran wipes his mouth with a handkerchief and drops it on his lap. He’s been waiting for this moment because he clears his throat, commanding their attention. “Alright, I know it’s early, but I want to get a few things clear since I have the both of you.”

Rayla pauses, bracing herself as she fills with awful anticipation. It’s been five years since the three of them have been in the same room together.

“As both of you know, the festival is tomorrow, which means I’ll be busy with preparations all day.” He leans towards Rayla, offers her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Rayla. I wanted to show you around and give you a proper welcome, but maybe after the festival? I hope you can stay a couple more days.”

She lets out a small sigh of relief and dismisses the apology. “That should be fine.”

He smiles. “Regardless, you’re free to do as you wish during the festival. I’ve taken the liberty of informing my guards to assist you if necessary. If not, I’m sure Callum will help.” Rayla tries to keep a straight face as Ezran turns to his brother, whose attention seems vacant. Either he’s fatigued or his mind is occupied elsewhere, or both.

“As for you, have you made your speech yet?”

He shakes his head absently and reaches for his cup. “I’m…still working on it.”

“What about Lady Freya? Have you received word whether or not she’s attending? I mean, you _did_ send her an invite, didn’t you?”

Callum almost chokes on his drink, coughs up a few times to clear it out of his system. He puts the glass down. Certainly he’s awake now. Rayla peers up from her plate to follow the exchange, watching as Callum glances at her before glaring at his brother.

Ezran thinks nothing of it, just shrugs. “I don’t mean to be a nag, but everything needs to be sorted by today if we want tomorrow to go well.”

He takes a few moments to calm himself. “She, umm…sent a message earlier. She can’t make it,” he says quietly.

Seemingly finished with announcements, Ezran nods and then silence reigns.

Callum resumes his quiet disposition and stares idly at his lap. Ezran’s not far off as he sips his soup like nothing’s wrong. With the palpable tension creeping in, Rayla stares out at the open window, desperate for relief from this stuffy air. There’s no better way to put it than she _feels_ the strain settling between them. It’s rather uncomfortable.

Before the tension silences her completely, she shifts towards the table, eyes latching to a basket of jelly tarts Ezran arranged the night before. It was impolite for her to forget, so she makes good on her promise, grabs a couple for her plate. It’s the first thing she eats today and no surprise, it’s delicious. Ezran’s noticed and he smiles.

Amidst the silence, she mouths him a small ‘thank you’ and the way he lights up gives her a rare joy. Because in that small, fleeting moment, he wasn’t the king. He’s the boy she met several years ago. Looking back, it seemed easier then. Somehow, fate had gifted her purpose. Filled her with enough desperation to bring peace. Enough that she betrayed her kin, took an uncalculated risk, found herself at death’s door. She could move mountains with that determination. At the time, she was just doing what was right. Things are different now.

“Rayla?” Callum pipes up from the other side. The illusion shatters. “I want to apologize for last night.”

It’s Ezran who reacts first. “You told her, didn’t you?”

Callum sighs in exasperation. “Yeah, I did. Go ahead. I know you’re angry with me. But you know what, Ez? I’ve kept it for five fucking years so cut me some slack.”

Rayla leans back in her seat. Funny how predictable the two of them are, having both just lied to Ezran about last night’s affairs. It’s rather troublesome how quickly things escalate when she’s involved.

Ezran stands, bent towards his brother. “I don’t believe it! You told me it was all behind you!”

“It is! That’s why I’m apologizing. I didn’t mean any of what I said. I was just upset.”

“That’s not how it works! You don’t air out your grievances and _then_ apologize for them.”

They’re both standing now, except for her. Something hurts in her chest and this time, she can’t stop her hands from fidgeting and gripping the hem of her shirt.

“Ez, the whole thing is complicated. You don’t understand half of it.”

The topic is a tired one for the both of them too, it seems. “ _I_ don’t understand it? Callum, you can’t hold a grudge like that and then go about how we can improve peace. That’s hypocrisy and you know better.”

The timing isn’t perfect, but Rayla stands now, slides her chair back. She lets the creak of the chair against the floorboards interrupt their talk as she shakes off the nervous energy.

“Stop it. Please,” she begs, because this is more pointless fighting. The two of them turn to her and she looks to older one first before talking quickly. “Callum, I accept your apology. I hope we can put this behind us. And Ezran…” She sighs, ignoring the incoming pangs, which are increasing steadily. “…thank you, but you don’t need to protect me.”

She’s not innocent either. Kneeling, she quickly sweeps her bag over her shoulder before squeezing out of the dining table. “I’ll leave you two to sort it out.”

And with that, she heads for the door. She doesn’t spare them a second look, only focuses on making it out. She moves faster than she needs to, because her breaths are staggering and it’s spilling just how unsteady she’s become. Truly, she can unravel in a matter of seconds. She can’t afford to have them know.

She slows down and breathes a sigh of relief when she’s in the hall by herself. A hand reaches up to her heart, willing it to slacken its pace, even as her façade of calm visibly buckles and fades. She closes her eyes, tries to quiet down the dread and panic settling in her chest.

There’s footsteps behind her and she builds herself up again, tries not to hyperventilate even as she feels herself slipping.

“Hey, Rayla? Are you still here?”

It’s Ezran. She turns around in time as he reaches for her left hand to stop her from leaving.

He means no harm at all. His grip is gentle, and yet she yanks back her hand because all of a sudden, it is _burning_. She begs it not to, but it does. The world slows as a sudden, dreadful sharp pain sears through her hand and travels up her arm. She winces and grits her teeth together.

 _Fucking hell_.

She hunches over, clutches her wrist and holds it close to herself, all the numb and tingly sensations flooding back like her wrists are tied again. She hears the exchange of vows and fancy words. Feels the thread snaking around her skin, sinking its fangs and venom into her blood. For a second, she sees her hand is blackened, crushed by the thin white thread of fabric. So unassuming but deadly. And still, even ten years past, she can’t explain this recurring phantom pain that she’s _bound_ again.

The moment comes and goes, and then she’s snapped out of it. When she looks down at her left arm, it’s normal again. No pain. No binding. No black or purple skin. But now she’s scared to look up and face him.

“Rayla…?” He sounds frightened. “Are…are you okay?”

She doesn’t how long that episode lasted, but he’s seen enough. Sheepishly, she hides the arm behind her. “…I’m fine,” she says, even though she has nothing to show for it.

Concern and sadness paints his face like never before. To ease the mood, she attempts a smile, but it doesn’t come.

“Please don’t tell Callum,” she whispers.

He nods his head slowly and she knows she can trust Ezran to keep his promise.

She breathes a sigh of relief. Carefully, she raises her left arm. Shakes it lightly to get a feel for it again. _Not bound, Rayla. Not bound._

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

“You know, I think I have just the thing to cheer you up.”

* * *

Out in the gardens, Bait clambers out of the small pond once he sees her.

Rayla kneels down on the grass, gives him a few rubs along the back even though it’s wet to touch. He croaks, nuzzles into her hand and for a second his hide glows to a playful pink. Funny he’s changed the least out of all of them. Grumpy and scowling. It’s how she remembers him and how he looks right now.

“I missed you so much,” she says softly, tracing the spots on his skin. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

He croaks again and the most she can do is pretend to understand. “You’re curious about Zym, aren’t you? Well, he’s grown a lot since you saw him last.” She humors the thought, surveys the garden around them and imagines the dragon. “Hmm…he’s taller than that tree, maybe as wide as this clearing…his wings are probably as wide as that building.”

Bait makes a grunt and she smiles. “Of course he misses you. I doubt he forgets his first friends. Didn’t the two of you play all the time?”

His eyes glower and then she remembers it better. Zym was quite the energetic creature as a hatchling. If anything, it was more like Zym wanting to play and Bait wanting nothing to do with it. Add that to the jealous and petty moments between them and the two made a dynamic pair.

“I know I haven’t visited in a long time,” she starts. “Things are… _complicated_ , at home.” He croaks and she chooses to interpret it as empathetic. “I’m trying to do better, even when it’s hard. I mean…I’m here, right? _Finally_ , after so many years.”

She imagines Bait nodding, agreeing with her.

She casts her gaze to the stone castle behind her. The legacy of this kingdom is both revered and haunted. The night of the full moon, when everything was set into motion, she made a significant choice that eventually changed the world. It was noble, honourable, easy to keep faith, but she paid no mind to the costs. In hindsight, she knows now even noble choices have consequences. She made herself a hero in the war, but an enemy to her comrades. Who knew you could be both? The price was steep, because only Runaan is left and even he is not whole.

Ralya shakes her head, tries to throw off the memory. Instead, she inspects the grounds, assures herself no one is keeping watch or standing guard. That it’s just the two of them.

She glances down at him. “Bait, can I tell you a secret?”

His expression doesn’t change much, or even at all, but she thinks there’s mild interest written there. She reaches for her bag and pulls it close.

“You can’t tell Ezran though. He worries enough as it is.”

He croaks at the familiar name, and she takes it as an affirmative.

She pulls out the small paperback and sighs. “You see this book? This is where I write my lists. Mostly, I write when I’m sad or scared or lonely,” she says softly. And as if the glow toad can read, she opens the book and displays to him the first few pages. She feels rather ludicrous at the moment, but she thinks the effort might be worth it. “They’re blessings, prayers, wishes, reasons even. Things I’m grateful for. I started writing lists because it’s like counting, and there’s no need to go into detail.”

She sighs. It registers this is the first time she’s said it out loud. “It sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

Her mind trails off as she flips to the last page. Her most recent entry, fresh from last night. She furrows a brow at the first word, _friend_ , and then begins to read quietly.

_Friend._

_Artist._

_Prince._

It clicks, because she remembers now who her nightmare had been about.

_Partner._

_Mage._

_Confidant._

_Lover._

_Hero._

The last line is an incoherent scribble. She lowers the book, uncertainty clouding her eyes and mind. It’s odd, because he’d been written in the book before. Several times, but not like this. She’s never painted a picture of anybody with a list of words, like she’s trying to remember them and hold on tight. Perhaps it’s a _wish_ , because she still wants him in her life.

“Rayla?”

She jumps at the sound, snaps the book shut and whips behind her, finding Callum slowing to a stop just a few feet from her. She puts away the book as discreetly as she can before rising to stand. Clearing her throat, she tries not to look so distracted.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he starts, raising his hands in surrender. “I promise I only came to talk.”

She swallows hard and forces a nod, because her mind is still flummoxed by the book. “O-okay. Everything sorted out with you and Ezran?”

He gives her a smile. “Yeah, it’s fine now. No more hard feelings.” There’s a small silence, because she looks on with anticipation as he figures himself out. He clears his throat slightly. “About last night…I just want to apologize again. I had no right to make those accusations. They were out of line. I mean, I used to have those thoughts, but not anymore.”

She shrugs it off. “Callum, it’s okay. Really.”

“No, it’s not,” he says, more to himself. “When I saw you standing there, there were a million things on my mind. I didn’t handle it well and I don’t want you to think I’m angry with you, because I’m not.”

She nods as her heart abruptly picks up its pace.

He lifts a hand to scratch the back of his head as he continues, “I mean, to this day, I still think about you constantly. Everything we did together, and how you made me feel. I always wish you were still here.” He pauses, face flushed deep it almost matches the red on his scarf. “Anyway, none of that showed last night, but it’s what I should have said.”

He’s talking like she remembers. A bit of awkward, a lot of rambling. Finding the right words to say even as he’s speaking. Trying finding the right time. And when he doesn’t know what to do, he spew outs words until someone stops him.

He glances up at her and sighs. “I think more people should know who you are, what you did for them. I wish they could see what I see,” he continues, giving her a sad smile.

She pauses and observes thoughtfully. “…Does it still matter? Even now?”

His gaze turns wistful. “It does, Rayla. Because…we lost so much of ourselves. The war gave nothing back.” His eyes lift to meet hers and she’s a little taken aback by the intensity. It’s not of anger or rage, but grief. The feeling is so palpable her face tightens, turns rigid.

“I was still a child then, and I saw a lot of things I shouldn't have. I lost my mom, my dad and…” _You_. He gives her a hard stare and then stops short of himself. His expression loses its edges as he casts his gaze to the side. “…anyway, now everyone thinks I’m some war hero. It doesn’t feel right.”

Rayla frowns. “You are a hero, Callum. You saved your kingdom.”

He sighs. “You saved yours too.”

She looks away, uncomfortable.

He glances at her, features sad and delicate. “That’s what I mean. You don’t like it either, when I lay it at your feet.”

She shakes her head. She’s no hero, but the title is a heavy burden. He’s a champion with much to atone and live up to, and sometimes it’s hard to do both. But the world still needs its figures. People to represent hope. Symbols for peace and victory. Living reminders that things are better and the war is done.

Rayla sighs.

“Callum?” she calls softly, waiting until their gaze is levelled. “…I forgive you.”

She watches relief take over him. His eyes are earnest, he smiles with gratitude. He’s lighter somehow, like a weight pushed off his shoulders. Or the feeling you get when the person you love decides they love you back and forgiveness is just as important. That’s what it feels like.

“Oh, okay. Thank you. You don’t know how happy that makes me.” And suddenly, he takes one of her hands, wraps it in both of his. She feels a spike of panic and familiarity gripping her at the same time. “It means a lot to me. Rayla, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

She tries to smile back, but she makes a mistake – peers down at their linked hands for a second before glancing up at him. He doesn’t miss it. She knows he’s reminded of the void between them, filled with years of space and absence. He can’t reach out for her like before, back when they were comfortable doing this and so much more.

He lets go and her hand falls loose beside her. For some reason, her chest is hurting. It’s a different ache this time. Tinged with longing and hollowness. She thinks of the last time she maintained significant physical contact with someone, a gentle hand on her back or a reassuring squeeze of her hand, and she can’t remember.

He wears a sheepish expression as he looks at the ground. “Umm, thanks again.”

She offers a small smile. Rather boldly, she lifts his chin with a finger so his eyes meet hers. She hasn’t touched him in so long, but it feels necessary. “You’re welcome.”


	3. Chapter 3

A violin plays a joyful and melodious tune in the background.

Streets lined with vendors, music, dancing and games with stuffed prizes. Concession stands catering foods from around the world are found at every corner. Wherever she looks, there’s a joyous atmosphere, reminiscent of the celebrations that took place at war’s end.

They’re standing at the castle entrance. Callum has taken it upon himself to entertain a curious group of kids with an assortment of ‘magic tricks’, the irony being it’s real magic, and they’re not tricks. Rayla watches with wry amusement from the side.

“Again! Again!”

She offers him silent pity as the children start another round pleas to see the trick for the tenth time.

Callum smiles tightly. “Alright, but this is the last time.”

He kneels to the ground, using the bottle of bubbles that has the kids so enthralled to blow another set. Drawing the sky rune in front of him, he whispers the incantation and a small gust of wind sends the droplets gliding and dancing in the air. The kids run in a flurry, trying to pop the most soapy water blobs before they soar too high.

The gust of air magic catches the hem of her pants. For the festival, she’s opted for loose human clothing. If it weren’t for her horns or markings, maybe she could pass off as one of them. 

When she looks up again, Callum is doing his best to wave off the kids, promising them another show sometime later. There’s a wave of disappointment, but one kid pulls out a kazoo from his party bag and sputters out noise as he darts off in the street. The others eventually follow and Rayla eyes one girl in particular.

“Hey, little one. Be careful. You might trip and fall with your shoes untied,” Rayla calls out to the small girl that reminds of her of a younger Ellis.

The girl looks down to see that her boot laces have come undone and then she sort of waddles towards the elf. Rayla drops to her knees, levelling herself with the child. “I know you’re eager to join the others, but do you want to know what’s _not_ fun? Getting hurt,” she says, tying her boot laces and then doubling it for extra measure.

Once finished, Rayla notices she’s been glancing between her non-human features, from the top of her head down to her fingers. The small girl soon erupts in a smile, having finally decided. “Miss, I like your hair!”

Rayla smiles the compliment. “Thanks. You can run along now.”

“See you later!” And then she bounces off towards the other kids with energy like the sun, reminding Rayla that kids are freer than anything in the world.

She rises to stand and dusts off her trousers. Behind her, she hears the faint sound of sketching. Charcoal on thick parchment paper. She glances up to catch Callum drafting something in his book. Something he wants to remember. She watches idly from where she is, studying the small ritual and fixed concentration in his eyes as he shades and fills the lines. Callum is so handsome still, and his boyish charm has aged well. 

He soon finishes with the drawing, notices her staring and then tilts his head.

She looks away and waves off his silent inquiry. “It’s nothing.”

He arches a brow, but she walks over to him and peers down at his sketch from his side. Back then, he’d always let her appreciate his works, scrutinize them even.

In the book, he’s drawn the busy streets before them, the banners hanging across the rooftops, the food stands, the assortment of flags, a few passerby. She marvels at his talent, even as she’s seen him do it hundreds of times. He could draw in his sleep if he wanted.

“Figured I should remember this day somehow,” he starts.

She nods, because that’s how he remembers. Callum always draws people, places and memories that are important to him. She saw them firsthand, back when those pages were mostly of his mother.

“By any chance, do you still use that… _book_?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

She’s lost at first, but clues in afterwards. Of course. Her own book, littered with lists it would confuse anybody with no context. He’d given her the first one she ever used.

“I do.”

He doesn’t avert his gaze, instead searches her eyes for understanding. “You…still get nightmares every night?”

She shakes her head. “Not every night. It’s better now.”

They’re silent for a brief moment, but only because it’s a topic to be discussed later. He finally averts his gaze, closing his book and slinging it over his shoulder. He motions her forward, suggesting they go for a walk and the two walk in step.

“You know, I think sky has always been my favourite class of magic,” he strikes up conversation, shifting the tone.

Rayla looks ahead of her, careful to maneuver around passerby. The streets are littered with folks now, but she has no doubt it will be busier later today. “Sky, huh? Why is that?”

He hums noncommittally. “I don’t know exactly. I just find myself using it the most. Maybe I’m biased, since it was the first Arcanum I learned.”

“Well, you’re also good at it,” she says as a matter of fact.

Callum beckons her to cross the street and she keeps close when they pass through a horde of vendors and their moving carts. People stare and steal curious glances. She sticks out in human garbs and it doesn’t help they’re a tall pair walking amongst a crowd. For a second, they glaze over her form or peek at her horns, but sometimes they look over at Callum with a glint of familiarity. He has no crown or regal showing, so maybe he’s not the prince they have in mind.

She almost wants to take his hand.

Make a statement. Somehow show the world that humans and elves can get along. Remove the judgment in their eyes and make peace. She knows he’d go along with it too, even squeeze her hand in steady reassurance, because he believes it too, but instead, she keeps her arms crossed in front of her.

“So is this what humans do when there’s no war?” she pipes up, shifting her thoughts.

He casts a lazy inspection to a particularly loud group across the street selling tickets for a show. “I guess so? I mean, after the treaties were signed, we threw a festival much like this one and the town settled down quietly ever since.”

She tilts her head at him. “And you?”

He looks down to the ground, hands in his pockets. “I sort of became a… _diplomat_?” He seems to think the title sounds silly out loud, so he quickly waves it off. “It’s fancier than it sounds. Basically, I go back and forth between towns, attend all kinds of meetings, negotiate trade, arrange foreign affairs, deal with disturbances at the breach, make big speeches…it’s not that bad, not so complicated.”

She snorts. “It _sounds_ complicated.”

His lips tug to a small smile. “When I’m here, I like to teach at the school.”

Rayla marvels at the thought. “I had no idea you kept so busy.” She reflects on what she’s done in her last five years. “Is being a diplomat still frustrating as you once said?”

He chuckles. “So you did read my letters.”

“Of course I did,” she says, surprising him with blunt honesty.

They settle for brief silence, letting the sounds of the festival fill the space. When she hears him exhale, she looks up again.

“It’s gotten better, or _easier_ , I should say,” he starts. “It’s a lot of work getting people to agree with each other, but I shouldn’t complain so much. I mean, I get to travel the world and see all kinds of things, right?”

“And attend a lot of festivals?”

He smiles. “Yeah. That too.”

Callum looks at her and there’s a thoughtfulness in his eyes. He’s preoccupied with something beyond this mindless conversation, but she knows him very well and it’s only a matter of time until he comes out with it.

“What’s on your mind?” she presses.

A sighs escapes his lips and he submits to it. “There’s room for one more, you know,” he starts. This time, he doesn’t play it too serious, not like he did five years ago, and she’s thankful for it. “You could still come with me. I’m sure everyone would be interested to hear your side of the story.”

Back then, these had been her choices. Join him or join the Guard, and after three days spent holed up in deep thought and rumination, she left him and chose the latter.

Rayla casts a dubious look. “Everyone? Really?”

“Well, maybe not everyone,” he amends. “Most people. The good ones will listen, at least.”

Her mouth tilts up in a small smile. “I hope you’re not trying to convince me to quit my job.”

Callum shakes his head, laughs it off quietly. “Nah. It’s just something for you to consider. My point is you’re always welcome here. I just wanted you to know that.”

She smiles again, but it fades quick as regret comes back to sting her. A blank expression shapes her features again. “Umm, can I be honest for a second?”

“What is it?”

“It’s about your letters.” Rayla sighs as she runs a hand over her face. “I’m just…sorry I didn’t write back.”

He turns to her, and she finds no resentment or malice there. “It’s okay.”

* * *

For a while, they sit at the square, listen to the band play folksy tunes, watch townies perform traditional dances. Rayla taps her foot loosely to the beat, reminded of the ceremonies and traditions held in her hometown.

Afterwards, they join the lineup to enter the town raffle. The prizes sit on the back table, courtesy of King Ezran himself. Baskets of foods, houseware, kitchenware, boxes of wine, stacks of books and smaller gifts stacked neatly. Callum needs neither of these things and Rayla can’t bring back any of the gifts with her on horseback. She think it’s reason enough to opt out of the raffle, but everyone is doing it so they toss their ballots anyway. 

They catch the noontime showing for the play re-enacting a dramatized version of the war’s end. She snorts at the interpretation of Azymondias, a name half the performers can barely pronounce. He breathes thunder and has sharp teeth, but years ago he was never as menacing as the play suggests.

Later, Callum somehow convinces her to try her hand in the archery tournament.

She’s not here to gloat, but he pushes for it. Maybe he’s improved over the years and thinks he can best her. Curious, she says nothing of it and motions for him to take his turn.

His first shot misses the bullseye by four markers, the second lands on the outermost ring and his third is the best, just one ring short. He’s not ecstatic with the results, but she gives him some credit. Back then, he could barely figure out the mechanics of the weapon.

“Pretty impressive,” she says as she accepts the bow from him.

Callum smirks. “I’m more curious about you, to be honest.”

He’s not the only one, it seems, as her eyes drift to the crowd. More onlookers have come to watch since they arrived. Families and cliques and tourists watch with wary anticipation. Even the brawny man supervising this tournament ignores the rest of the matchups to eye her with some suspicion. There are no other elves amongst this crowd, let alone this festival. She’s the only one with horns.

The matter is paltry.

Rayla eyes her target, sets her arrow and pulls back the string, releasing it with a deftness taught to her as an assassin, but honed in the Guard. With no moving targets and harsh fogs, she knocks the easy bullseye, and behind her there are gasps of surprise. She wastes no time, lifts the second arrow and launches it with more speed. It lands beside the first, _just_ edged into the middle ring. Her third attempt goes awry, her concentration snapped when the large man in her periphery coughs loud into his mouth and her arrow goes straight into a hay bale behind the target.

She lowers her bow and briefly acknowledges the crowd before spying the burly man a _look_. Even some of the townsfolk have the decency to quietly applaud.

Raylat tips her head at him. “Is there a problem?”

He ignores the question entirely, getting up from his stool to yank out her arrows. “Sharp shooter, aren’t you?”

She shrugs. “Lots of practice.”

He raises a brow. “Are you trained in combat too? The art of the blades? Magic, even?”

Her expression sours a bit. “Does it matter?”

“You tell me,” he answers vaguely. He follows up with a half-snort, half-chuckle before snorting in ridicule. “Here we are, throwing all kinds of festivals and parties, thinking the war is over. Meanwhile, everyone living across the border act like it’s not.”

She doesn’t twitch. Her face is wooden. She silently hands him back the bow when he comes to get it. At his size, she guesses maybe he’s a retired guard. He speaks like a hard-bitten man, not necessarily contemptuous. Perhaps he served under the liege of King Harrow, now hardened having failed to protect his principal. Maybe he was there that fateful night and he’s seen firsthand what she’s capable of.

She stops herself from overthinking and swallows uncomfortably. “Umm, thanks for letting me play.”

He scoffs. “You can thank the prince.”

Rayla turns around, finding Callum in the corner speaking with a family across the fence. She stays nearby and tries to shake off the slight, but she’ll need something strong to forget that happened. Idly her gaze falls to the other matchups, where archery is done in good fun, but she knows when she returns to her post things will be different.

She hears clapping from her side, flushes with mild embarrassment as Callum walks over.

“Amazing as always,” he says, and her cheeks are noticeably pink now. “To be honest, I kind of underestimated you back there. I thought you were a swords-only type of warrior and maybe I could best you with my mediocrity, but I was wrong. Well, lesson learned.”

She sneaks a glance to the brusque man, unable to help herself. He’s still looking her way, curious of her relations with Callum. “Thanks,” she says absently.

“Is everything okay?”

Her mind reels back to what Callum said before. About how the war should have ended. What could have been done to end the persistent prejudice and bigotry. Suddenly, she stands to block Callum’s view of the archery tournament. “Everything’s fine.”

But she knows that face. Filled with question, concern and disbelief – he sees right through her. After years of separation, maybe he no longer feels obligated to act on it.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he tips his head towards the streets and she sighs in relief.

* * *

In truth, she hadn’t anticipated spending the day with him. She’d resolved to watching a few festivities from a rooftop and then spending the rest of the day in the forest. Instead, Callum takes her to the bakery for the afternoon. This place is famed for their jelly tarts, but today they’ve cooked up all kinds of delicacies, treats and pastries she’s never seen. All pretty and glittered with extraneous icing and sugar dust. Ezran would love it.

Rayla looks up from the glass counter and eyes Callum at the register. He’s on friendly terms with the baker behind the counter and they exchange smiles as the older man hands him a box of sweets.

She walks over curious. When she tries to get a peek, he just hands her the box. Inside is a dozen of bare cookies. A concoction of butter, sugar and flour mixed together and baked to golden perfection. Plainer than anything displayed in the counters.

Out of age-old connections, the baker lets them head into the back kitchen. Callum goes straight for the piping bags with a strange child-like eagerness.

“Something you probably don’t know, when Ezran and I were kids, we always snuck in here,” he says, making a frosting bag with a tip for her with leftover icing. She takes it with hesitation, having never done this before.

“You two would _sneak_ in here? What kind of castle lets their princes do that?” she asks idly, trying to figure out the bag.

“Well, the guards were always busy doing something else, or guarding someone else. And the bakers would let us sample the treats so it was well-worth it,” he explains, chuckling at himself. “Back then, the palace was always… _tense_ , and sometimes we needed a break. Things never really settled after my Mom died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t feel so bad. That was years ago, and now this place holds good memories. Ezran got his jelly tarts and for me, the bakers were always nice enough to let me try my hand at decorating. I always looked forward to that the most.” 

It makes sense, she thinks, because Callum always had a knack for art. She watches his demonstration on how to write with frosting, outlining a neat ‘R’ for Rayla on one of the cookies.

She tries to frost the primal moon next. It comes out as a sloppy oval. She doesn’t even try attempting the smaller details and moves on. She figures she should try something easier, but the next cookie she pipes out too much on the first squeeze and the most she can salvage out of it is a blob. She sprinkles chocolate bits to cover it up before deciding she has no affinity for the art and instead, leans on the counter to watch Callum instead.

She marvels at his concentration and studies the way his brows furrow when he connects his lines. He makes anything from snowflakes, trees and precise swirls that look like roses. On the last cookie, he sneaks a glance at her pair of sprinkled blobs before tracing the moon rune himself with more care and attention than she will ever obtain.

He slides it over to her and she thinks there’s a hint of smugness on his face.

“Well, you win this one,” she says, standing straight and glancing over the array of frosted cookies.

“I had no idea we were competing.” His smirk is still smug. “Does that make us even?”

She snorts. “Well, I’m not sure how much your cookie decoration skills would help you in a fight. I think I could still knock you down.”

He raises a brow. “What if I use magic?”

Rayla tilts her head in interest. “Is that a challenge?”

His smirk disappears and he hesitates, considering it over. “Err, you know what? I take it back. I already underestimated you once today. I’m not looking to embarrass myself again.”

She smiles and before they know it, they run into a silence. Eventually they would run out of things to talk about. She’s not going to recount the days they spent apart or their days spent in war. Unfortunately, there’s hardly anything in between.

The silence is interrupted and she’s glad for it. The baker walks in at the right time, beckoning Callum over. She makes a quick guess, like a small game, and she’s right on track when after their quick exchange, Callum looks over apologetically.

Peering over at the storefront, she catches a couple of guards whispering to each other. They’re looking for him. Her guess is he’s needed elsewhere, maybe due for some big hero speech.

“You go on ahead. I’ll catch up with you later,” she says for him.

He nods. “There’s going to be a dinner celebration at the castle later,” he brings up. “I’ll see you then?”

She sends him off with a nod. When he’s gone, she packs up their snacks to go, not missing that the baker has chosen to stay nearby. She shoots him a second-glance over her shoulder in acknowledgement.

“You’re a friend of the prince, huh?” the old man pipes up. “What’s your name, lassie?”

She turns around, finds the baker appraising her. “Rayla.”

“You’re in good hands, you know,” he says for some reason.

“Why do you say that?”

He shrugs loosely. “The prince. He doesn’t judge. I mean, I don’t either – you’re welcome anytime here – but it’s different with him.”

Rayla raises a brow, unsure if that made anything clear.

He motions vaguely in her direction. “I’m guessing he met you through work?”

She hums noncommittally. “Not quite.”

“Well, I think he kind of likes you. I’m no expert, but I’ve known the kid his whole life,” he starts. She’s starting to wonder if this is some cautionary warning. “But hey, if you don’t like him back, that’s okay. Just – let him down easy. Rumour has it he had his heart broken by an elf a few years back.”

“Oh,” she says. “How… _unfortunate_.”

The man is only protecting him, it seems.

“I’m not worried. He’s got plenty of years ahead,” he says before sauntering towards the work table where a lump of dough waits to be kneaded. “It’s nice to meet you, Rayla. I hope to see more of your kind around.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Care for another round?”

Rayla sneaks a glance to the barman across the counter. She waves a palm and shakes her head.

Earlier, she thought it was strange. She can’t forget it. The baker was a mere stranger, and yet his words linger: _Rumour has it…_

She clicks her tongue and shakes her head, tries to throw off the memory.

In front of Callum, she can’t feign the same ignorance.

She sticks around at a bar until the moon is up. People have come and gone. Most are drunken stragglers now. The wide berth everyone gives her makes it easy to watch the rest of the bar. Only the most plastered of the bunch have the courage to sit with her. The last young man, half-lidded and only mildly aware, slurred and rambled for almost half an hour about why he doesn’t believe in miracles or the sun. Mid-sentence, he promptly asked for one more round before he was cut off. He stumbled out into the streets afterwards.

Now she’s alone again, nursing a terribly lukewarm ale, head somewhere in the clouds, but the moment doesn’t last long. Someone slides into the barstool beside her and when she turns over to look, she almost spits out her drink.

“C-Claudia?” The sight sobers her up a little.

The black-haired girl plops herself on the stool and gives her a wide grin. “Mind if I keep you company?”

Rayla can’t help but stare, distinguishing that her once-long locks are now cut at the shoulder. White streaks of hair mixed amongst black strands still frame her face – Rayla assumed she’d find a way to dye them black again, but even she’s kept souvenirs from the war.

She stops, fixes her gaze elsewhere to stop herself from gawking. The hair, for all its significance, takes away nothing. The woman sitting before her is a terrific scholar. A talented mage. A caring sister. She remains brilliantly beautiful in her own right.

She shakes her head out of her reverie. “No, I don’t mind.”

Claudia assumes a friendly countenance. “Soren told me you were back.”

Rayla loosely recalls the encounter. “I see.”

She tips her head in her direction. “I swore to myself I’d see you before you go, but I have to admit, you’re tough to track down. I’m lucky I spotted you in here.”

A nervous chuckle. Her eyes flit to the hair once again and Rayla reminds herself to stop doing that. “Umm, I think your hair looks great, by the way,” she says, just to make up for all the shifty glances.

“Oh, this thing?” She fingers through a few locks and pulls a strand across at eye level. “Be honest. You don’t think it makes me look older than I am, do you?”

Rayla shakes her head furiously. “No, I…it suits you actually.”

Of course, Claudia’s caught her off-guard more than anyone; old habits die the hardest.

Rayla clears her throat and pours more ale into her cup, a little unsteady. Words seem to stick to her tongue, or they tumble out of her mouth. Her head feels light. She’s warm too. Warm everywhere. Her arms, her legs, her face. Her knees are weak, and if it weren’t for this stool, she thinks she wouldn’t be upright.

“Umm, do you want a drink?” is the first question she asks. It seems inappropriate, even with where they are, but Claudia isn’t taken aback by it.

She watches as Claudia elegantly flags over the barman, leans over the counter and quietly asks for something on the rocks. Rayla gazes vacantly as the bartender pours some amber-coloured liquid into a cup and slides it smooth across the counter. She doesn’t know what to say next. The two never had so much in common.

“Hmm, I just realized something…” Claudia pipes up. She takes a sip of her drink first. “You must be the guest of honour, aren’t you?”

Rayla shakes her head. “N-no. I don’t think so.”

Claudia turns in her seat, chin resting in her hand, elbow braced against the counter. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you should be. After everything you’ve done.”

“Hmm, it might be too late for that,” Rayla mutters, reaching up gently to push the hairs out of her face.

Claudia shrugs. “Maybe, but maybe not. No one can fault you for telling the truth.”

Rayla slumps her shoulders and fixes her gaze ahead. “You sound like Callum.”

She gets a laugh out of that one. “I actually work with Callum. We both teach at the academy from time to time. I’ve gotten to know him better these past few years.”

Rayla isn’t surprised. “That must be… _tough_.”

“Which one? Working with Callum or teaching at the academy?”

She hardly knows. The word tumbled out of her mouth. “…the academy.”

Claudia scoffs. “Nah. At least when you’re teaching, people listen to you – well, most people. Try looking after Soren for a change. Not a single day goes by where I don’t catch him trying to do too much.”

“Ah, I could see that.”

Claudia sighs. “He never got his legs back, you know,” she starts, voice firm with unspoken grief. “Last week, he strained his knee running laps around the bailey. He limped home and brushed it off like it’s nothing. I got so angry I scolded him for it. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Rayla looks at her, _really_ looks, because behind those green eyes there’s more than she lets on. She thinks there should be a word for that look. That glassy, surface, iceberg expression, always laced with an understated gloom.

Claudia even has the gall to smile on top of it. “I don’t understand him sometimes. He’s either in denial and overly optimistic, or he’s wallowing in misery. I consider myself lucky to find him somewhere in between, but frustrated too, because he goes back and forth.”

Rayla swallows hard. “Sorry to hear that.”

Claudia shrugs. “Most of the time, it’s fine.”

“If it helps, I know the feeling.”

“You do?”

She nods. “Well, sort of.”

“Let me guess. Your Uncle?”

Claudia’s familiarity with Runaan slips over her head. Then she realizes she’s backed herself into a corner, because now it’s her turn to reciprocate.

“Runaan, he…” She has to clear her throat, swallow down the acidity first. “He, uhh, lost his arm from the binding. I managed to get out of it, but he wasn’t so lucky.” She pauses for a moment, remembering the others who never got out either.

“I frequent his place when I’m not at the Guard. He’s bothered when he needs my help, even with simple things. To feel better, he doesn’t let me do much, or _anything_ , really, but he’s always been proud like that.” Her breath suddenly catches and it forces a lump in her throat. “…nowadays, I just help when he’s not around. That way, I don’t feel worthless.”

“How does that work exactly?”

Rayla hesitates, looks down at her half-empty bottle. “It doesn’t, really. I don’t even think it’s helpful, but I do it anyway. I clean his place when he’s out. Stock his shelves. Cut his food. _Fucking hell_ , I even boil the pot before he has the chance to notice.”

Claudia furrows a brow, picking up the change of tone.

“…I even go so far as hiding my weapons. Leaving them at the door, keeping them out of sight, so he’s not reminded he can’t use them. I don’t know why I do it because, my _god_ , he doesn’t even fight anymore, even though fighting is all he’s ever known.” She closes her eyes and covers her hands with her face. “Awful, isn’t it? The war is finished and he’s become a fucking shell.”

She immediately takes it back, and kicks herself for thinking so cruel. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Claudia knows the apology isn’t meant for her, but she keeps silent.

Rayla shakes her head. “Do you know what’s worse? I offered to braid his hair one time. It was pathetic, because I only did it so he can look like-” _Himself._ Her voice catches again, the word stuck in her throat. She can’t help but laugh at her own misery. She pities herself. “How stupid of me. He was always stubborn, even when he had _both_ his fucking arms.”

Claudia frowns. “Maybe it’s just with you.”

She blinks. “Pardon?”

Her expression is neutral, listening. Rayla doesn’t glean anything from it. “He’s taught you since you were young, so it’s always been his job to take care of you. Maybe he prefers to keep it that way.”

She studies her for a moment. “That’s not… _realistic_.”

Claudia shrugs. “I know, but if you keep seeing him as weak and fragile, then that’s all he’ll ever be. I doubt it’s what he wants. To be honest, I came to a similar realization with Soren.”

Rayla takes two steps back, remembers how this conversation came about. Distracted and dimwitted as Claudia always seemed, she was never any of that underneath. Rayla saw it in the way she fought her enemies, defied commands, practiced the dark arts. You couldn’t be stupid to use dark magic, and back then she used it plenty.

Rayla submits to it. “Sorry, you’re probably right.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods. “I’m just angry. With myself, mostly. I wish I handled it differently.”

Claudia starts to touch her shoulder. Rayla doesn’t jump. “It’s not too late to change. I’m sure he doesn’t mind. Besides, if it’s any consolation, I have the same struggle with Soren and as you can guess, he’s just as stubborn, if not more childish about the whole thing.”

Rayla smiles, realizing they seem to have more in common now than they did years ago. She’s glad for the empathy.

“Can I ask a personal question?” Claudia pipes up suddenly. “It’s about Callum.”

Rayla stares at her cup, takes a long and deep breath. “…Sure.”

Claudia gazes down at the counter like she’s stuck in a cloud of her own. “He let me flip through his sketchbooks one time.”

Rayla doesn’t freeze. Instead, her lips tug to a small frown.

She continues, “There were so many pictures of you. Pages and pages, all in your likeness. Some have it down to the finest details. I guess he didn’t want to forget. You were so far away at the time.” She pauses, looks up at Rayla with a tilt of her head. “I’m merely curious…what is he to you?”

_What is he…?_

Rayla thinks five years back.

Sweaty palms, nervous energy in her veins. Reluctance hiding behind a hopeful smile. The robotic, practice tone she used when she told him her decision – _I’m joining the Guard_ – and how, in that exact moment, she knew it disappointed him. He ran through several facial expressions, all tinged with confusion before pulling out that iceberg look she’s come to loathe so much and wishing her the best of luck.

Days turned into months, elapsed into years, and then she could barely remember how she got there. How could she leave when her mind was so clouded, when she’d already been seeing so much red. She searched for him in everyone and failed. Five years pass and now she looks ten years older, more jaded and wrought with understanding.

“Friends,” she finally says, swallowing hard. She reaches for the bottle instead of her cup.

Claudia arches a brow. “I think he saw you more than that.”

Her chest starts throbbing. Rayla nods her head, because she knows it better than anyone.

“He did, “she says, and drinks directly from the bottle.

* * *

Guilt seeps through and cements itself. In times like this, it just won’t go. It knocks a dull ache in her chest, sags her eyes, drags her footsteps. She doesn’t know how to make up for lost time anymore, but it only begs the question. Why did she come?

Eventually, she turns up at the castle before midnight. She pads up the long and winding cobblestone stairs, gripping the handrails until she arrives at the courtyard crowded with the most important folks in Katolis. Running to the comforts of the forest or her guest bedroom are enticing thoughts. How she wishes tonight’s moon was full, just to slip off unnoticed.

Talking to people, engaging with them. Nothing is more nerve-wracking, frightening even. Fearsome monsters and warriors she’s come up against, and somehow her knees buckle at this small and simple task. It’s the whispers, she thinks. They follow her everywhere she goes, even here. From the entryway into these gardens, she doesn’t miss it. Admittedly, they aren’t all bad. Some people are just curious.

At first glance, her eyes find Ezran first. He’s easy to spot. A young man dressed in royal garbs, always the centre of attention, heavily surrounded. Surprisingly, his eyes find her just the same. He couldn’t possibly have been waiting. She tries to wave him off as he dismisses himself and maneuvers out of the crowd, but it’s to no avail. She lowers her hand and sticks to the back wall.

“Rayla! I’m glad you made it.”

She puts on a sheepish smile and scratches the back of her neck. “Am I late?”

Ezran raises a brow. “Not at all. Callum’s about to start his speech.”

“Oh. Did I miss yours?”

He laughs lightly. “Nope. It’s just Callum tonight. We agreed on it beforehand. I’ve been doing the talking every year so I argued he should take the mantle tonight. Took some time to convince him, but he gave in eventually. Besides, he owes me a few favours. You know how he is,” Ezran admits, a little pleased with himself.

She chuckles in amusement.

“Did you tour around the festival?” he pipes up.

“I did.” She casts her gaze around the room, finally finding Callum at the base of the stage, sharing a laugh with guards and councillors alike. “I had a great time and the town looks beautiful. Your brother was gracious enough to show me around.”

“I know.” And then he shoots her a small grin.

She looks ahead of her, almost hiding her face from him. Right now, she doesn’t have the strength to deal with his knowing smiles. Instead, she tips her head to the stage, where finally, Callum makes his way up the wooden platform.

He struggles to gather the crowd’s attention, but they hone in eventually. Rayla settles herself against the wall, looks down at her boots and listens in. She nods along as Callum pedals back five years to describe a new age of peace, where there are no debts or looming perils threatening to take them down. Where it’s no longer a reality to fear what lies beyond these borders, become silenced by dark forces, getting murdered in your sleep. He thanks his lucky stars he doesn’t live like this anymore.

A knot coils in her stomach as he recalls the fallen in those troubled times. She thinks if it weren’t for the war, this town would still have its king, and Ezran would have gotten a proper childhood, and Callum wouldn’t be the one making this speech. Ironically, she would have been brought up as an assassin regardless of the war. It always seemed, even back when she was a child, that joining the Dragon Guard would be her destiny.

She waits it out until the end, until a round of applause sweeps the crowd. A server passes and Ezran grabs himself a glass of wine, prompting her to do the same. She clues in that it’s time for the toast. Callum dedicates this time to show gratitude for the past five years of peace and good fortune. He prays for many more, and his speech ends as he raises his glass and drinks it down.

“Cheers, Rayla,” Ezran pipes up.

“Cheers,” she murmurs to herself, downing the sweet drink in one go. She puts away the cup and suddenly, she’s craving another. But her eyes remained glued to Callum across the room. She watches as he’s joined by others, accepting compliments.

Her mind treks down that familiar road. At this point, she can only wonder – what it would have been like if she chose otherwise. If she took him up on his offer. Became a diplomat, a foreign officer, even if she’d never been a fan of the cold, political battlefield.

She supposes they would have travelled the countries, side-by-side, with their union displayed for the world to see. Maybe it would help to alleviate the longstanding discriminations. In between meetings, she could rely on him to keep her sane, and help her in ways others cannot. But there’s chance it wouldn’t last.

His humanity, with all its glaring differences. A shorter life, a different kind. Relationships between their races are uncommon for that reason. Besides the constant mockery and public disgrace, what other problems would they run into? And where would they go? Her home is elsewhere and his is here. Someone would have to decide, once and for all, that this relationship is worth keeping, worth saving, and maybe it won’t be good enough.

Or.

She swallows hard. Her lips press into a thin line.

_Maybe it would._

Maybe they would have wed. Taken it to the alter, promise to love one another, for better or for worse. Committed to a love louder than their judgments, enough to quiet their enemies. She would know bliss like she’s never known and for the first time in her whole life, her heart would be full. It would have been worth it. Because now they wouldn’t be standing so far apart now, where the space between feels like harsh tundra. Every step towards each other is like walking on ice shards and broken glass. Thinking she’d built this wall to protect herself, but forgot it would keep him out.

“Rayla, you’re dreaming, aren’t you?”

She glances up, forgetting where she is.

Bringing a hand up to her face, she rubs the blur out of her eyes. There’s a nudge at her side and Ezran offers her his handkerchief. She takes it without hesitation.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Don’t bother with me.”

He tilts his head towards her. “I’m not bothered.”

She looks him in the eye, thinks what’s stopping her. Is she waiting for the right time? Because she will never find it. Instead, she has to ask herself why, after everything’s already been said and done, she still tries to forget it. And more importantly why, after five years of staring it in the face, does she still scare of getting hurt.

“Callum, he…did you know he offered me to join him? Five years ago?” she asks slowly.

Ezran locks his gaze ahead of him. “I knew.”

“Sometimes, I wonder…” She clears her throat. “…how different it would be if I did.”

He exhales long and slow. “I…can’t answer that.”

She smiles, hides her own disappointment. “I guess it could have gone either way,” she says, softening the blow.

“Maybe you should ask him.”

She hums in question. “Maybe.”

* * *

The clock strikes past midnight. Rayla turns on her heel.

“Ah, leaving already?”

She turns around, wondering how long he’d been eyeing her. She gives him a loose shrug. “It’s late.”

Callum tilts his head towards the crowd. “At least stay for the end of the festival?”

Rayla sighs, shifts her gaze to the clear night sky. “I shouldn’t, you know.”

“Would you stay for me?”

Rayla startles on his choice words. The questions hangs in the air and she lingers on the familiarity of it, like it’s a call back. Even though he’s not one to mock their past, or scoff at her decisions, she still considers it.

“Umm, I won’t take up too much of your time. Just a few minutes?” he rephrases. Maybe he senses her discomfort because now he’s looking away, stroking the back of his neck.

She attempts a smile to rid of the tension. “Okay.”

Grateful, he gestures to the walkway and allows her to lead as he follows behind. She settles down on a bench and he takes a seat beside her, mindful to keep space.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I hope the townsfolk weren’t too harsh on you. I know the attention can be a lot, like they’re suspicious and watching your every move, but don’t let it bother you too much. Ezran and I are trying to change it.”

She breathes deep, in and out. The attention slips past her now and in honesty, not all of it is rude and unwarranted. “It hasn’t been too bad. Better than I imagined, actually. And for the most part, they’re just curious. I don’t blame them. Humans get a similar kind of treatment across the border.”

“I know, but I still don’t like it,” he says quietly.

And of course he doesn’t. _I think more people should know who you are._ No one should. Even after the war, there’s still much to do with restoring harmony and resolving the tensions between races.

_I think he saw you more than that._

She shakes her head to throw off the memory. “Umm, did Lady Freya end up coming to the festival?”

At first, he furrows his brows and then it dawns on him. “Oh, you caught that, huh?”

She nods. A lot was discussed during that breakfast, but this managed to get through. It wouldn’t surprise her then, or even now to find out how much he’s moved on.

His face flushes a light pink and he looks away, breaking eye contact. “She didn’t.”

Rayla lowers her head in return. “Are you involved with her? Or anybody?”

“I’m not.”

She turns to the ground, crossing one leg over the other. “Do you want to be?”

He gives a half-shrug and doesn’t say anything. It’s a weighty question, maybe even unreasonable, coming from someone like her and given their history.

_Maybe you should ask him._

She doesn’t shake off the words this time. She asks herself again why, after all these years, does she still mince her words. As if the war didn’t teach her to do otherwise.

“Callum…by any chance, do ever think about… _us_?”

It seems to catch him off-guard. “…you mean, the two of us?

“Yeah,” she says softly.

He squirms in his seat, finding his breath has quickened all of a sudden. “Well… _yes_ , I do. Sometimes, but more so in the years back,” he says, taking his time. He shrugs again and then lets out a loose breath. “I mean, it was hard not to. At the time, you were so important to me.”

A pained smile reaches her face for a second and then it drops. She glances at him through her lashes. “Do you ever think of what would have happened if I stayed then?”

The loaded question takes him aback, and he shifts his gaze to the sky. Exhaling through his mouth, he sinks down in his seat and sighs. “Oh…umm, you know, I don’t…” He stops to rub his face and think carefully of his next words. “Ah, this is really hard to say…”

“It’s okay,” she interjects. Perhaps it’s unfair to ask. She doesn’t even know what she wants to hear. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“No, it’s fine,” he insists, even though it’s a struggle to appear unbothered. He keeps his eyes trained to the sky where the moon shines so bright amongst the stars, and then he recalls the night was just as clear five years ago when they parted ways. He remembers he’s done this before.

He lets out a small breath. “You know, I can’t say for sure where we would have ended up, but…” he says, voice laced with a rare tenderness. A delicate smile paints his features. “…Rayla, I know I cared about you. For sure, I was always thinking of you – where you were, how you were doing. I think back on all the things you did for me and I’m grateful.”

Speaking these truths seems to relax him. He’s almost unfazed by the matter now. She supposes that’s the good in being honest. It’s why he always seems more free, less burdened from the war. She wishes she could be the same.

He doesn’t look taken aback anymore. “I mean, I… _loved_ you then. I would have done anything for you.” From the corner of his eye, he notices her worrying a handkerchief between her fingers. He knows it’s no shock. No wide eyes, no surprises. Callum continues, “Afterwards, when you told me you were going to join the Guard, I supported your decision. It was yours to make and I wanted you to be happy.”

She hangs her head. _I remember_ , because she already knew these things. All of them.

“If I’m being honest though, I wanted you to stay,” he adds, mostly as an afterthought. She can only wonder how long it took for him to say his piece so freely. “When I confessed everything to you five years ago, I meant it.”

“…I know,” she finally speaks, voice dulled to a whisper. A sad smile surfaces, because he speaks only of the past. “I’m sorry I left back then. At the time, I didn’t understand it so clearly.”

He waves a hand in dismissal. “It’s okay. You followed your own path. I couldn’t fault you for making your choice.”

She shakes her head here. Not because he was wrong, but because _she_ was. Her resolve is crumbling, her pride withering away.

“It…it wasn’t a good choice, Callum,” she finally admits, and her shoulders are shaking. “I’d already been having nightmares before then. I was slipping, almost every day, and it got worse.” Her breaths tremble as they come out and she grips the wooden slats of the bench hard in her hands. “…in some ways, it never seemed like the war had ended.” 

His neutral expression fades, slowly replaced with concern and worry. “It got worse? In what way?”

_In every way,_ she answers in her mind. She gulps, swallows hard and remembers the times she’d been alone. Slipping in and out, day after day. Writing in her book, taking every assignment and keeping busy just to avoid the night terrors. Feeling pathetic when she couldn’t even do that. 

She recalls every moment spent in slow healing. Huddled in a corner or looking for quiet places to wait out her episodes. Some of them didn’t last long, but they never stopped coming either. One step forward and one step back, it always seemed. A repetitive, stumble of a dance.

“Rayla, tell me. Why didn’t you-” He stops all of a sudden, catching something in her eyes.

It starts as a high-pitched fire, followed by a deafening loudness taking over.

He’s watching her when it happens.

Memories of the war flashing before her eyes in that slow, dreadful moment before she slips over. There’s a loud ring in her ears. It must be an explosion. A bomb, maybe. Rayla reaches behind her, tries to draw her blade – nothing. Stupid, she left her sword in her room. Another explosion sets off and time ticks slow again. Her breaths turn ragged. She doesn’t recognize it.

There are hands on her shoulders.

“Rayla, they’re only fireworks! It’s not real! There’s no-”

She doesn’t hear it.

Instead, she drops to her knees, cowers to the ground to find cover. The ring is so loud and piercing that her ear drums might burst and bleed. She slaps her hands to her ears and plugs them tight. Block out the incessant noise fighting for her attention.

“Rayla! Listen to me!”

There’s a muffled voice there, mixed with all the chaos. She tweaks one eyes open and makes out his crouched form in front of her. _Callum? How did he get here?_

She follows his voice and hones in on it, until it’s louder than the clamour. After a while, she manages to slow her breaths.

“Ah, that’s it. Keep going.”

She finally feels the gentle grips on her shoulders. After that, there are no more clashing swords. _Somehow it’s working_. She closes her eyes, focuses on nothing else. 

“I know it’s loud,” she hears. His voice is muted, but she recognizes it.

Rayla sits there for a while, hands still pressed to her ears. _Listen_. _Just listen_. He lulls hushed words to her, trying to instill peace to her turmoil. And she can hear him. She remembers his comforting truths.

_I cared for you._

_I loved you._

_I would have done anything for you._

Soon, the roars soften to small pops, mere crinkles in her ears. Her shaking subsides. The raging war has stopped. She slowly opens her eyes and glances around. No explosions. No dark magic. No pain. She’s not bound, there’s no bloodshed and her sight is clear. She knows what’s real. The panic slowly fades and ebbs into nothing.

“Not so loud anymore, huh?”

When she looks up, he’s right there. Eyes meeting hers, and he’s smiling.

She gently drops her hands in front of her.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says, looking upwards.

She follows his gaze to the colourful myriad of patterns illuminating the sky. A spectacle of lights. Shooting up one after the other and coming to life in splendid colour. Blossoming into dazzling stars and kaleidoscopic forms. She stares slack-jawed and swallows hard. She hasn’t seen a firework in years.

“Beautiful,” she echoes.

For a while, they stare at the vibrant display. In her eyes, there’s something otherworldly and magical about the lights. She allows her mind to wander far away from here. Somewhere quiet and peaceful.

“Ah, Rayla, you’re-”

She looks at Callum, and then something drops in her hands. Her brows crease.

_Teardrops._

“Oh, I’m…”

She stares down at her open palms, only registers the wet trails on her cheeks after they’ve fallen.

_I’m…crying. Why…?_

She doesn’t mean to. She didn’t even know tears could fall unconsciously, without her permission. Maybe they’re like instincts on a battlefield, knowing when to swerve left, or duck underneath a sword or run to take cover. She knows how to do all these things, except she hasn’t sobbed in a long time, and it’s a long forgotten feeling.

His gaze is gentle. “What’s wrong?”

She’s figuring it out herself. “I…don’t know.”

And then her memory trails backwards, flashing to a hundred fleeting moments. That’s when the sinking realization hits her – how much she’s missed him over the last five years. The emotions surface only now. She’s never given it much thought, which only makes her wonder how she can miss someone in retrospect like this.

Then again, she always knew she would. No one’s able to quiet the noise like he does.

All this time spent searching and pondering why she’s come, but deep down she already knew the answer. Callum’s different now, much like everyone else, and yet his touch still leaves a significant spark. She laughs quietly at her foolish self, and then her smile drops, overcome with something else entirely.

Five years gone and wasted.

Regret trickles in, seeps through the cracks and hardens.

Desire grows palpable in her chest and it’s so pure it hurts. All those years ago, she’d let go of something good and honest. She sees it now with absolute clarity. She must have been so dead to the world not to notice it. Blind, because she missed that chance. And utterly foolish, because a love like that is so extraordinary and rare.

This is what regret feels like. Carrying the weight of the world with no strength. Here he stands, and yet what’s left of her still remains an empty black hole.

She emits a heavy sigh. “Ah, I wish things were different,” she says so quietly.

“Pardon?”

Unsteady, she finds her feet and forces herself up, even if she feels lightheaded. He mirrors after her, keeping their gazes levelled. “I wish things were different,” she repeats, louder and resolute. And then she thinks about his _honesty_ , and amends her remark. “I wish I stayed.”

For years she’s read him with ease, but now his expression is unreadable.

In between all the sentiments and fervent emotions brewing inside her, she finds the courage to smile. “…I loved you too, you know,” she finally says. No fear of getting hurt this time. She lets out a hollow laugh. “Back then, I was so convinced that joining the Guard was the right choice. If I had known I’d lose my mind, I wouldn’t have done it.”

Few tears still fall, she realizes. She can’t stop them.

“I guess it’s my fault we ended up here,” she admits, voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, Callum.”

The last set of fireworks light the sky and all that’s left are trails of smoke in a darkened sky. Silence takes over now. She smiles at him, features sad and delicate. He’s holding his tongue, thinking it through. She decides to wait, gazes up at the stars until his mind is made up.

Finally, she hears him exhale a breath.

“Thank you,” he says, breaking silence. “For telling me.”

She doesn’t miss his wistful gaze. Perhaps all these years, he been waiting for her to say it and now the confession falls short. It’s too late now. He’s coming up empty too. The years are lost on them.

Callum reaches for her hands to unclench them, and it registers how hard she’s been digging her nails into her palms. He unwinds her fingers with his, until they fold into each other and she can’t ball her fists anymore. Eventually, he loosens his grip, lets her arms ago and then presses her against him.

She startles at first, makes a surprised sound, but eventually settles in. Her restraint buckles, and she finds her arms tucked between them to lift them around him. Rayla can’t remember the last time she’s been this close to anyone, and yet the feeling is so familiar. It’s the soft and comforting touch she barely remembers. A reminder there are things worth yearning for in the aftermath of war.

And still, it’s not enough.

The pressure and heat against her torso isn’t enough. He kisses the top of her head, quick and chaste, and it’s also not enough. She could hold on, press her lips to his, trail her hands on every part of him and still, _still_ , it will never be enough to make up for lost time. Nothing to mend this unaccountable and unavoidable pain that this is what should have happened years ago. Like they were supposed to _be_ something together.

Her breath falters.

Soon, he pulls away and there’s a somber, apologetic cloud in his eyes. She doesn’t know why and he doesn’t tell her. Instead, he nods mutely, bidding her a silent farewell before gently brushing past her.

She doesn’t want him to go. Not like this.

“Callum, wait.”

He pauses his step and turns to face her.

“Do you think…?” she pauses and hesitates, even as her heart wrings with desperation. She musters up the courage, because she needs to know. “…maybe, there’s still a chance? For us, I mean?”

The next moment she spends in wait feel the longest. She fills with nervous anticipation.

He looks on, gaze wistful, says nothing. And when the silence reigns for too long, she loses her smile. Time is ticking and with each second she grows uneasy. He opens his mouth to say something – she silently urges him to – but nothing comes out. Her face drops here, fingers wringing the ends of her sleeves. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked.

“Rayla.”

When she looks up again, his eyes are steady, comforting even.

His regards her softly. “We loved each other once, right?”

She briefly bows her head and lets out a small breath. Her heart swells. “Yes.”

He doesn’t say anything afterwards, but a smile reaches his lips. He nods and bids her good night and finally, it’s enough. It’s the only answer she needs.


	5. Chapter 5

Incense burns and fills the air with flagrant smoke.

Ezran’s on his knees, head bowed in front of his mother’s alter, palms pressed together as he mumbles in hushed prayer. Rayla kneels on the dirt beside him, hands folded neatly on her lap and listens. She offers her silence and respect to the alter instead.

In front of her, Queen Sarai is carved in stone, delicately molded to capture her beauty and heart. She’d heard many stories of the woman, spread and spoken by civilians and her own two sons. She noticed all of them vouched for her courage and kindness. As far as Rayla’s concerned, she’s grateful for the woman. The war would still rage if not for the way she raised her sons.

In the far horizon, the sky bleeds orange and yellow hues of warmth. A whisper of a breeze grazes her cheek. Combined with the earthy scent of doused incense, the atmosphere is soft and soothing. Ezran’s voice eventually hushes into silence.

“You know, if I could be granted a single wish, I’d wish they were still here,” he starts, not necessarily with a sigh. For a second, he also glances towards his father’s alter. “For guidance, mostly. I always fear I’m not doing enough as king, even though I’m just trying to do what’s right by this kingdom.”

When she looks over sidelong, he looks younger somehow. Underneath those royal garbs and golden crown, she sees the boy forced to grow up too fast.

“What more can you do? Is that not enough?”

Ezran shrugs loosely. “I’m not sure. It’s just…I feel overwhelmed sometimes.”

She places a hand on his shoulder. “That’s okay. Just remember, your parents loved this kingdom and everything in it. That means your job now is to protect it. So long as you keep that in mind, then I’ve no doubt you’re doing it right.”

He remains silent, unmoving. She can’t see on his face if her words are finding their mark, but his shoulders are relaxed and the hardness on his face has lifted slightly. He’s silent for a moment longer and it makes her wonder just how much he’s listening.

“How about you, Rayla?” he pipes up, shifting course. “If you had one wish, what would it be?”

Her lips pull to a small smirk. The concept is almost childlike, like a stretch of imagination, or based in fantasy. She’s had to ground herself in the soreness of reality for a while now. _Her_ reality. But strange enough, she knows her answer.

“I wish my parents were here too.”

She doesn’t hesitate because she’s known for years. But her wish is largely different from Ezran’s. “I want to apologize to them. For a long time, I called them cowards. I despised them for what they did. Having been through it now…they didn’t deserve any of it.”

His expression is thoughtful, appreciative. She’s gotten better at being honest. He pushes himself up to his feet, catching her attention. “You should forgive yourself.”

She nods. For once, her voice is clear and calm, “I know.”

Ezran’s smile is radiant and proud, but he faces the side so she only sees the corner of his lips. He gazes out into the quiet horizon. “Your last day, right?”

“That’s right.”

“You should come back soon then. You’re welcome anytime here.”

Rayla stands up and follows his gaze. “I will.”

There’s an air of certainty this time, unlike the last. Ezran tips his head towards the direction of town. “Callum said he wanted to see you before you go. He might be waiting at the stable.”

She nods, but not before getting one last final look. She memorizes the curl of his hair, each line and crinkle of his smile, the way he stands up straighter now that he’s king. She commits it to memory.

“Thank you, Ezran. For everything.”

* * *

The morning air is still crisp and cool. The streets are nearly empty this time in the morning, but remnants from yesterday’s festivities still remain.

Rayla’s already mapping her route back to Xadia, recalling the stops she made along the way. She fast-walks towards the stable, ties up her hair and slips into a loose coat. Remembering where she is, she pulls out what gold she has left to tip the keepers. Even now, she still finds the custom rather strange.

Sure enough, Callum is there when she arrives. He’s in the midst of dozing off, or _was_ , because he pushes himself off the post with a jolting start when she walks into view.

She smirks and waves a casual hand. “Good morning. Sleep well?”

He straightens up slowly and yawns into his hand. “Apparently not. What about you?”

Rayla shrugs. It’s not hard to compare, especially when the comforts of a proper bed is infrequent in the Guard. She’s used to sleeping on the ground. “Pretty good, actually.”

She watches with mild amusement as Callum valiantly fights another wave of drowsiness threatening to crash over. His lids are half-open, and he forces himself to yawn again, just to keep them from closing.

“You should have slept in. You seemed exhausted last night,” she ventures, crossing her arms. She knows him well enough he won’t admit it. He’ll resort to stubbornness if it comes to that.

“But I wanted to see you off,” he says, but his voice is groggy. It gives him away. Perhaps his exhaustion, or maybe even a mild morning hangover, is interfering with his filter.

She follows up with a sigh. “Then could you sit down, at least?”

As if she just gave an order, he does just that.

Now that he’s in less danger of tripping over himself, she brushes past him to where her horse feeds on grains and roughage. Rolling up her sleeves, she hefts the saddle on the worktable and gets started on untangling the cords and untying belt loops.

Callum watches quietly, listening to the sounds of squeaky leather and clinking metal, mesmerized as she inspects the saddle for wear and tear.

“I still don’t know why you left, you know,” he pipes up suddenly.

She pauses her task, and when she turns her head over her shoulder, there’s no strain or discomfort in her expression, just confusion.

“I never told you?”

He shakes his head.

With a sigh, Rayla turns and leans against the table. She closes her eyes, contemplating how bizarre it is that she’s going to talk about her parents twice now just this morning. Already her day is filled with unusual happenstances.

“I’ve brought up my parents with you before, haven’t I?”

“A few times.”

She looks down at her palms and rubs the calloused spots, the way she does when she talks about something slightly uncomfortable. “They were part of the Guard too. I never saw them after that and eventually, they become strangers to me. As you know, I was raised by someone else.”

He remains silent. He already knew. Perhaps it was always that simple. She’d joined out of familial obligation and tradition.

She makes a cutting motion with her hand. “It’s not why I joined,” she adds, as if reading his mind. He blinks, appraising the hardening expression taking over.

She continues, “All my life, I’d always been curious. I wanted to know why they did it. Why they left. Why was the job so much bigger than me?”

Callum gulps, sensing where this is going. Part of him regrets bringing it up now.

“I used to rack my brain thinking about it. As a parent, what was so important out there in the world, that you would leave your child? Someone you’re supposed to love, right? Neither of them stayed so I was kept in the dark.” A hollow smile surfaces, followed by a defeated sigh. “And then the war ended. Right in front of me was an opportunity to solve my life’s greatest mystery.”

He peers at her cautiously. “You followed their footsteps.”

She swallows hard. He’s hit it right on the nail. “Imagine. Going through all of that just to find out it’s not worth it,” she says reflectively, _bitterly_. She bites down the memory. “I suppose I really am their daughter, aren’t I? Ironically, it meant leaving behind someone important and dear to me as well.”

Silence stretches between them. It doesn’t take him long to realize she means _him._

Her expression crinkles a little and morphs into something apologetic. “I’m sorry I tested our relationship like that. It was selfish. I didn’t stop to consider how it hurt you,” she says, inwardly hoping this apology is her last. How horrible it feels to be so full of sorry and have nothing to show for it.

Callum looks more awake now after her small revelation.

Rayla pushes herself off the table and focuses again on the saddle. “Mind if I borrow a hand?”

He fishes himself out of deep thought and rushes to her side in a matter of seconds. Together, they tackle her mount with the worn-out saddle and Callum decides he won’t prod about her parents any longer. At the same time, he remembers how familiar this feeling is. The thought of her leaving _again,_ with no timeline for return, puts a bitter taste in his mouth.

He ambles over to her side and pats the mare softly once they’re finished securing the bolts.

“I guess I’m good to go,” she says, stepping back to appraise the steed. She turns to him. “Anything else you want to know?”

He supposes a proper goodbye is in order. “Nothing else. Just…be careful out there. Keep your eyes on the road, take shelter from rain, get some rest…things like that. I know you’re more than capable, but can you promise me you’ll look after yourself?”

Rayla looks up at him, eyes gentle and bright. She knows he’s only asking for his own sake and assurance.

This time, she’ll give it to him.

When she reaches up to kiss him, it’s light as air, like particles meeting and separating. And yet, his lips are warm and so are hers. He soaks in the feathery feeling of the moment, her earthy scent filling his senses, her hand on his chest, her lips on his, even for the small and miniscule moment before she pulls away.

Afterwards, he’s caught between confusion and bliss.

She smiles, one last effort to convince him she’ll be steady and careful. “I promise.”

Callum watches as she hoists herself up on her steed.

“Any chance I could convince you to stay?” he asks coyly, perhaps for old times’ sake.

He expects an eye-roll or a scoff. Something along the lines of ‘Not again’, but he doesn’t get one. Instead, her face is instilled with contemplation.

“One day,” she finally says. From her perch, she smirks down at him. “…but not today. Maybe if you ask me later?”

He stares with wide eyes and raised brows. “Later? How long are we talking?”

She shrugs. “A year, at most?”

“Just a year?” he echoes in disbelief.

For some reason, Rayla finds his shock rather amusing. “Well, I have a few things to sort out at the Guard. I can’t leave my comrades in the dust just like that. That’s not how it works unfortunately,” she explains as a matter-of-fact.

He still hasn’t processed his disbelief yet. “I was prepared for another five.”

Now she scoffs and gives him the eye roll he expects. “It’s entirely up to you.”

She decides to leave it at that. A promise to both princes. She’ll do better fulfilling them this time. With a small kick, she prompts her creature to an unhurried trot out of the open gate. She shoots Callum one last look. He understands her better now. That alone makes the visit well worth it.

“Take care.”

“See you soon.”

Somehow, she leaves Katolis with renewed hope and vigour.

Somehow, her despairing soul is rocked to quiet waiting.

Somehow, she’s found it – _amnesty_ , sealed with a promise. How lucky, for someone who doesn’t consider herself blessed. Even as the cold breeze caresses her skin as she rides off, her bones and chest are filled with warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that it’s finished, I want to thank all the lovely and wonderful readers who’ve taken interest and left their thoughts! Regarding the ending, perhaps down the line, I’ll make an epilogue forwarding a few years later. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed it! - Mint


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